Coroner's court
by witchfingers
Summary: AU/ Bakura, a coroner, dreads his quiet Landlord for a reason more disturbing than owing him the rent. Yet, he must accept his help to solve a strange murder case. Add a ghost and a punk. How far can humans meddle with life and death until a price is due?
1. Chapter 1

_Introduction._

* * *

><p><strong>Coroner's court<strong>

**.**

The man woke up with a start.

Through the moth-eaten curtains, a bleak light filtered into the room like thick fog, announcing yet another disgusting gray, rainy day. His pale-colored tresses were a dirty mess and made him look untame and rebellious- they all said he was freakish to like that hair color, he teased he took bleach for breakfast, the truth was that it was some kind of genetic condition. He didn't care much anyway.

He was heaving. Partly because of the coffee-overdose induced nightmares, partly because he'd overslept, but mostly because his subconscious suddenly recalled something, stirring an emotion so strong he'd been startled awake.

Swiping his greasy face with the palm of his hand, he allowed his upper body, poorly clad with an old, ratty sweatshirt, to fall back on the pillow and feather mattress. His maroon eyes scanned the ceiling he disliked almost as much as paperwork.

Damn it.

_Really, in pure honesty, damn it_, he thought. He'd be hearing it, any minute…

A soft knock on the door. When he, of course, did not answer, the knocking echoed again the weirdly occupied chambers of his mind.

_Toc, toc, toc_…

Even when he was knocking he sounded like a hellhound. Who?

The landlord, of course.

This was the one day of the month when the rent was due and he was in default… again. And he shivered. If he'd stood before the gates of hell and Hades himself had come to greet him, well, then he would not have felt such a thing, because Cerberus itself could have never evoked in him that dread.

The rapping did not cease, and it would not, until he opened the door and paid. It was simple, was it not? And was he himself not the toughest man he knew, also? People were scared of _him_, and this showed like a beautiful song in the creative nicknames he'd earned.

But then that guy, the landlord…

He sighed, sweaty and drained as he was from the little sleep he'd gotten, he almost _crawled_ out of bed and fished the money for the rent from a drawer full of papers.

He unlocked the door, and opened it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: This thought came out of nowhere, let's see where to it leads us._**

**_What will happen now? Who is this man, and why is he so afraid of his landlord? _**

**_Reviews come in handy ;)_**


	2. Chapter 2

_Coroners are Judicial Officers responsible for investigating violent, unnatural or sudden deaths where the cause is unknown._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

The corridor was dead-still and terribly cold, and the murky post-dawn light made the grim, tattered wallpapers look like beckoning shrouds.

The young face that greeted him was a lie- it was not young, and it was not amiable, he would never buy that. It was around _him_, his own private harbinger of hell, that the air sunk several degrees. Around all his visually appealing persona…

"Good morning, Bakura," his landlord greeted softly, "I take it that you know why I'm here, right?"

Bakura shrugged, scratching the back of his head past the filthy silvery tangles. He thrust his hand forward, and dropped a couple of notes on the young man's palm, who had not guessed his tenant's intention until the battered papers were floating mid-air.

"Thank you," his landlord said, almost apologetically, _almost_, "I don't want to torture you, but if I don't come early then I never find you."

The older man averted his eyes. If their gazes crossed he knew he'd be stepping into unfamiliar territory, and the heavens above knew how much the thought of that discouraged him. He hated the inferior position. He hated to be disempowered.

_Go away_, he thought, seeing his Landlord remain a moment longer than necessary in the threshold, _Get the hells away from me_. But he remained in silence, just like he had been ever since that door had opened.

"You look unusually like crap today," the young man commented.

Bakura muttered something under his breath, but not even he himself would have made sense of what he'd intended to say. He only knew he was tired and underslept, had another eternal day ahead, and _oh_, it was just driving him insane, that _cold_ that oozed from the gentle-looking young man before him.

He wiped his face, oily from sleep (he needed to take a bath too, _badly_) pinched the bridge of his nose, fidgeted ever so slightly, he finally said under his breath, "_Get away_ from me."

His interlocutor's eyes widened slightly, he already had large, bright eyes, but Bakura could tell, or smell it, or _whatever_ it was the damned man _did_ to him, and then his pretty little mouth shaped into an 'o', and the godforsaken temperature dropped again _lower_, and Bakura felt that he was about to implode.

"That _is_ a bit of a rude thing to say, Bakura," his landlord commented, and it became evident that he was intended to actually have a _conversation_ with him. A bloody. Damned. Conversation.

_With him_. He groaned. He did not deserve it, the guy knew how he could not stand him.

"It's because you throw your weekends into a dumpster," the young man was reasoning, ignoring Bakura completely, "You know, I can hear you alright, e-every single Sunday morning. You're kind of a wreck."

"Save it, Landlord," was all Bakura found it in himself to say, and rather curtly, too. He could have done more, then again, he daren't.

"You know I know," the young man said smoothly, and that alone sent a single shiver down the older man's spine he could never for the life of his prevent. And everything looked grimmer and more sinister as the corridor became awash with begrimed morning light.

_You know I know you know I know you know I know-_ Had he shouted it, had he _screamed it_, it wouldn't have damaged his sanity that much. It was something that they could consider normal but

It

Was

Not

Normal

DAMN, DAMN! Bakura struggled to keep a more or less straight poker face as his insides churned and his mind screamed a terrible rhapsody of I-want-out-of-here.

His mind. The mind of the man who looked at death everyday in the face and _that's it_. No greater deal. Just how many dead people did he say hello and goodbye to every week? Insane amounts; he was all blue lips and fishlike eyes, blackened nails and when not, bloodied corpses severed members, crusts of blood bile gore everywhere and he, was, still, sane.

Maybe he had an occasional nightmare.

And there, gentle and shrouded in a mystic halo of grey morning shine, stood his Landlord, driving him utterly over the edge.

"You can always ask nicely," the young man commented.

Bakura, poker face. "What the hell," he muttered.

"You don't need to endure it if you don't want to," he offered, "You could trust me… accept them."

_Them-them-them_… the reverberations in the narrow corridor, each felt like an ice-cold needle digging into his flesh.

"you could very well join them, in _hell_," Bakura spat, wading into the very same dangerous grounds he'd so carefully been avoiding-

"Take it back," his landlord said calmly, "They don't like it that you talk like that."

Bakura had to wrap his arms around his frame to steady the trembling. "I take it back," he said slowly, and shut the door in his Landlord's very noses.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Water, as it trickled down his naked back, was like redemption. If he ever managed to get out of the shower, he was sure the scales would be indicating he was weighing less, what with the insane amounts of weekend indolence in which he'd indulged.

But the dead really don't care much about how the living look or smell, right? Probably it was better if he stinked anyway, it saved the trouble perhaps of smelling corpse and death everywhere- that was why he was that skinny anyway, you wouldn't eat with much zeal either if all your food smelled like the mortuary.

He left a trail of watery footprints on the chipped parquetry floor, _drip, drip_, and suddenly it was like an avenue of bloodied feet pursuing him, and—

_No_, he ordered himself firmly, _You're not slipping into paranoia, you bloody wreck_, he acknowledged he _was_ a wreck, but he refused to become a paranoid one. He rubbed all the water and badly-rinsed conditioner off his hair with a towel in shameful condition; towel he discarded to the floor where it would remain until the next time he bathed, whatever.

Bit by bit he'd have to cave in, he _was_ losing it slowly. He refused to. But he was on his way.

Perhaps he could start by tidying himself up a bit? Cleaning the apartment, washing white goods that looked and reeked like the corpses he dealt with daily… If he gave it thought for some seconds, it disgusted even himself. And now the soles of his feet were stained light brown from the discoloring parquet.

He got on his dark working trousers, pulled on the heavy black leather boots, threw on the navy blue uniform.

On his back, bold, white letters read the name of his profession.

He grabbed his coat, stuffed his keys and wallet into his pocket and went out to the corridor. He'd not closed the door when he remembered he was forgetting his cigarettes, not the lighter, which he carried always around in the wallet. He came in again, he fished a crumpled package on a desk.

He shut the door loudly, went out to the grey streets without an umbrella.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _As promised to Hana-Liatris, well, she reviewed, so I updated this chappy!**

**Thanks tons to _Bakura's Guardian Angel_ for the encouraging review ;) **

**We all smell the plot coming up soon, right?**

**I must especially thank _Punk Rock Kitsune_ who was totally awesome and included this humble story in her group, _Bakuras FTW _! (in here http :/ www .fanfiction .net/community/Bakuras_FTW/93637/ )**


	3. Chapter 3

_A Coroner is a lawyer, a doctor or both._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

Bakura had not worked as a lawyer in years. He'd dropped out of practice a year or so after being called to the Roll , fed up with endless paperwork from the small firm he'd worked in. That had been around the time he met the late Robert Zork, who'd been looking for some unscrupulous young person to take in as deputy coroner.

Needless to say, he'd accepted.

And look at him now, the goddamned Coroner for that wretched jurisdiction, with the space behind his eyelids filled with gruesome images of dead bodies.

It was barely past 7 am of a pathetically cold and wet Monday, and a very thin drizzle coated him with the grime it washed off the very smoggy buildings. He dodged black umbrellas with the ease of one who has done such all his life, and soon enough found himself standing before the great building of the New Scotland Yard.

He vaguely remembered, before entering the building, that he'd stepped on his cellphone and effectively destroyed it, that last memorable Saturday night, when he came home so bloody wasted that he woke up slouched against the kitchenette. So if someone had tried to reach him for some pressing matter, well, they couldn't have.

But dead people were dead, and stayed dead, and could wait. He lit up a cigarette before coming in, if it had rained it wouldn't have worked, but drizzle was fine. It was like fog.

While he was there standing outside, feeling his white locks getting damper and damper, a couple of police officers walked into the building and nodded towards him rather respectfully. Granted, Bakura was not too much of a respectable individual, but he had a respectable rank, so if they didn't like it they could shove it.

He took some steps towards the main door, crushed the dying cigarette against the wall, and dropped it into a houseplant by the entrance, inside. His feet carried him rather idly to the office of the chief inspector, a sour man in his early forties, who had too remarkable a mind to be putting it to waste in the Police Department. Or so Bakura thought, anyway. The truth was that no case that reached Seth Kaiba's hands ever went unsolved, and the cops in the hallways sometimes affectionately called him 'Sherlock'. What kind of affection _anyone_ could have for the man, that was beyond Bakura's comprehension, but _he_ couldn't talk, he didn't precisely like anyone much. Not quite even himself.

However, they were in good terms, and this showed in the way they both greeted each other as Bakura came into the office, without knocking.

"Ey chief, lovely morning, aint'?"

The inspector's piercing blue eyes flickered to assess the intruder for a rapid two seconds, then he went back to typing something. "Ey, coroner," he said curtly.

Bakura was seating on the other side of his desk when Seth looked up again, and a small smirk played on the coroner's lips as his wet hair stained the chair full of droplets.

"I wonder what could bring you here this _lovely morning_, when there's so much to be done," Seth said while he skimmed trough some official-looking papers, and then sighed deeply, collecting himself so as not to snap at the other man. They were officers of more or less equal status, despite the obvious differences in their functions.

Bakura wasn't too thrilled to hear that. "Enlighten me?"

That managed to annoy Seth. "You didn't even _touch_ that report, did you," he said under his teeth, never losing his cool, but evidently wishing to put a stop to the coroner's idiocy.

"Got me like always, chief." Though, really, Bakura had _no idea_ what report the inspector was talking about. Again, he played along.

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose, and to do that he had to lift his spectacles, which gave him a very particular appearance of annoyance. "_You_," he said, "You're probably the _worst_ Coroner this jurisdiction ever suffered."

"That's cause you didn't work with good ol' Zork, chief," Bakura said with a maleficent smirk. Fortunately for the inspector, the smirk and the mood didn't last for long, because he tossed a copy of the report at the white-haired official, and the man focused on reading it and fell into silence.

"Got your hands full with this one?" he asked mordantly when he finished, tossing the report (which mainly consisted of pointless numeric information, specific terms, and photos) back onto the dark mahogany desk.

"No," Seth replied coolly, "_You_'ve got your hands full with this one, Coroner. Good luck."

It was easy to perceive how much the inspector was loving routine procedures at the moment, a small glint of contempt played in his eyes as he looked at Bakura, who was now scowling, and didn't look excited at all.

"Nice and gory, just like you like them," Seth permitted himself to add, but Bakura, judging from the loud slam of the door, probably didn't get to hear the last word. Oh, well, he hadn't missed anything substantial.

.

.

.

A young coroner's officer drove the black car to the scene of crime. Usually, Bakura's work only involved paperwork and some supervision overseeings, but there were some cases he liked to lead himself. Call it the thrill of the hunt, call it professional interest, call it bloodlust if you will. Or perhaps he just liked to be reminded of the real world out there from time to time.

Ten in the morning, and the fog had all but diminished. It was always many times as worse by the river, anyway, and most dead bodies turned up there, so he knew the scene when he got off the car.

A grey sky, black mud everywhere and brownish, rotting reeds. The stagnant stench of grime and river surf that the fog preserved and enhanced spectacularly, police officials and the team of forensics already working like white spectres around the corpse, and well, of course, the corpse.

A young police officer that Bakura recognized as one that ran errands from here to there in Scotland Yard came up to him and saluted him.

"Hey officer, what've you guys got so far?" He'd been chased by cops out of dark, suspicious alleyways a great part of his adolescence, so it sometimes surprised even himself the steady, almost good terms in which he was with police officers.

That very officer didn't appear to be the best source of information he could find in the place, he thought. The young man, of evident Asian ascendance (and, just to make sure, his ID card read _Hiroto, Honda_) fidgeted, not quite sure how to respond to that.

"First time on site?" the coroner guessed with a veiled smirk.

Honda nodded. "It's… rather messy, sir. But we've not been here more than an hour. And Mrs. Hawkins is about to arrive, so hopefully," he shuddered, "hopefully we won't be here much longer either."

Mrs. Hawkins was the forensic anthropologist that worked with the police on such cases- bodies mangled beyond recognition, found in unlikely outdoor spots. The stout woman turned up in the crime scene within half an hour of Honda's wishful statement. Pushing her oval specs a bit up the freckles on her cheeks, she made her way through the swarm of cops and forensics and knelt before the body. Bakura coolly came up to her, and peered over to see it for the first time.

The photos had not done it justice at all. In-the-flesh, and pardon the pun, the corpse looked way…juicier. The fog and the river, the coroner could tell from experience, made the process of decomposition look like a cheap horror movie. What he could also testify about, (the stench put aside- it was his least favorite part, always) was the intense color that blood acquired when everything around it was dull and earthen. It elicited some sort of morbid fascination he had once termed 'professional interest'.

Mrs. Hawkins was a very thorough woman, she had ample experience in her field of expertise, and she had gone through the initial stages of sample-taking and preliminary revision with apparent ease. However, as she stood up, unsuccessfully trying to dust off the greenish mud that stained her blue scrubs, she looked grave.

"Tch," she mouthed, "We've got one of _those_," and she looked over her shoulders at the decomposing body.

"Of _those_, Rebecca?" Bakura asked her, trying to find the anomaly in the visually unappealing corpse (from the ragged clothing, he guessed it was a woman), and failing to. "Elaborate," he said, lifting an eyebrow.

"You name it, it's there," the blonde woman said, "Internal, external, she's got it all. Well," she said, now turning to the forensic team that waited behind the coroner, "Pick everything up, guys, and we're taking it all back to the lab. We've got a very busy week or so ahead of us, so Weevil, what'dja say to getting a good bottle of whisky for us?" The member of the team she'd spoken to cackled and nodded. She in turn winked at Bakura, who was now looking intently at her, lifting _both_ eyebrows. "Better begin in high spirits, right Bakura? And yeah, you can come have a drink too…"

And she left to take down some notes, as the other forensics began working on removing the corpse from its bed of mud and reeves.

Bakura blinked a sudden drowsiness away, shut his eyes for some seconds to rest his sight and opened them again. _That woman's insane_, he thought, _She's sure to actually _get_ that whisky._

Near the two patrol cars, the coroner spotted that officer, Honda, with a handkerchief over his nose. When he placed his hand (bony and deathly pale, he'd been told) on his shoulder, the young man almost jumped out of his skull.

Bakura couldn't but chuckle. "Chill, they ain't coming back from the dead yet."

Somehow, although it was meant to creep out the police officer, that comment made _him_ shiver too. It made him think of ritual amulets and voodoo magic, something that in turn made him feel sick in the stomach.

Summoning sense and composure, he shook such thoughts away, and nodded towards the black car he'd come in. "Come," he told Honda, "Drive us back to the Met, I've to file a report."

* * *

><p><strong>Characters:<strong>

*** Seth Kaiba: detective chief inspector in the New Scotland Yard, in his forties.**

*** Hiroto Honda: police officer, mid twenties.**

*** Rebecca Hawkins: 50 years old approx., forensic anthropologist, head of the team of forensics working for the Met.**

***Met = Metropolitan Police… the British police whose HQs are in the New Scotland Yard.**

*** Coroner's officers: work for the Coroner.**

**Oh, yes! In case I've been too vague, this takes place in London!**

**_- Except for the purposefully obscure characters, each chapter I'll be describing in the Author's Notes the characters introduced. For the sake of clarity and characterization and a better understanding of the plot :) I'll also try to provide definitions of the more specific or less common terms, if there should be any!_**

**This chapter goes with special love to the dearlings that reviewed! RiverTear, Bakura's Guardian Angel, and last but not least Hana-Liatris! Guys, where would I be without you? Did you like the turn of events? There's being more Landlord mystery in the next chappy ;) But now we've got our hands on yet another mystery!**

**Next chapter: A murder investigation begins, and why are so many outsiders interested? What waits for our badass Coroner when he returns home?**


	4. Chapter 4

_An Inquest is an enquiry to determine who the deceased person was, how, when and where the individual died, but not why._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

"_You know you totally have to investigate this, right inspector?" _a painfully familiar voice greeted Kaiba as soon as he picked up the telephone.

"Look, coroner, we're a bit entangled here," the police inspector said, "If you don't read the reports, what is it to me that we find a dead body?"

"_Don't bitch,_" came the far-off answer. (Respect? What was _that_?). "_Do you even know what the thing looks like?_"

"There's a thing called photography-"

"_Look, inspector,_" Bakura said, and it was hard for Kaiba to carry on with his plan of snickering at the coroner when he was addressed in such businesslike tone, "_I'm opening an inquest and adjourning right after- you saw the bloody thing. If this ain't needing a trial, we might as well go overthrow the Queen._"

It would have been very unlikely for Kaiba to go on taunting Bakura after _that_. However much he liked to anger the other man, there were… priorities in life. "Well," he said, slowly, weighing his words (Bakura could tell he was devising the first steps of a mastermind plan), "Work your magic and adjourn the inquest, and then we'll take over."

Silence on the other end hinted at a confirmation.

"But don't get comfy yet. And keep your fangs off the evidence," the chief inspector mocked with a smirk.

Bakura, on the other end of the line, hung abruptly. Kaiba took off his specs and passed a hand over his face, then rubbed his temples. He was so much _above_ that hysterical man.

.

.

.

It was hard for Bakura to think it had all happened within the span of half a morning as he sat in that disconcertingly white office. He'd called doctor Bluewhite, the pathologist, in advance (and from Honda's cellphone), but he'd been waiting for half an hour already. Although an incense stick conveniently placed next to the door gave the room in a pleasant scent, it was not enough to mask the smell of disinfectant and formol that ruled over the whole building. The Forensic Services Department of the Met.

Though reluctantly, he'd always been one to rely on intuition, and something about the current murder investigation felt off, like the calm before the storm.

He'd been lost in thought a while when the door whisked open almost noiselessly, and the lithe figure of the doctor, clad in immaculate, aseptic white, rapidly reached over to Bakura to shook his hand.

"Good morning, Bakura," she said, looking apologetic, "I'm really sorry you had to wait, but I was working on somebody when you called me."

He shook his head slightly, to show he didn't mind much. "I had time to shake that damned chief inspector off my thoughts."

A small, mischievous smirk played on her lips. "Well, now, everybody always talks of that man, I'd like to see for myself what the big deal is!" She said this as she walked around her desk, to sit in front of the Coroner. She was so used to dealing with cases that involved violent deaths that she no longer let them weigh down on her spirits.

"You wouldn't like the guy, Kisara," Bakura commented, once again wondering how _anyone_ could like Kaiba.

She shrugged, and concentrated on the report the Coroner had left on her desk. Attached to it were some instructions from doctor Hawkins.

"I see," she said under her breath. Bakura had been observing how her white scrubs and her skin beneath were more or less the same color, and wondering as he did always how that could be normal for someone that still breathed.

"Doctor Hawkins is right, the body is in a rather weird condition…" she paused to think. "I can begin working on your post-mortem in an hour, is that ok?"

Bakura smirked. "_My_ post-mortem?"

"You know you'd like that," she taunted, "You're one lazy ass, Bakura."

Smirking slightly was as far as he ever got.

"Well, shoo then, out you go. And come back around midday, I'll surely have something," she ushered.

Bakura waved goodbye over his shoulder as he left, thinking that he didn't know any doctor that wasn't slightly off the rocker. One had to be, otherwise one wouldn't be slouching and squinting over corpses and meddling with their insides the whole day, day after day, for _years_. And Kisara was like that- he knew, they had worked together for years, and as the Coroner had the discretion to choose the pathologist he wished, most of his deads ended up under Kisara's scalpel. Although she was rather scary when she wanted to, she was very efficient, and never asked much questions. Just got her job done neat and quick.

His mind straying far away from the case, Bakura walked without any particular direction, only away from the building and crowded streets. He needed some time to himself, like it or not, it'd been a very busy day… morning.

Under the ever-grey light, he kicked an empty can out of his way- he found himself in a narrow, dirty alley. He used to drink beer and smoke illegal stuff in alleys like that, he thought. It was not without some contempt he thought of himself at present, so compliant with the rules, so… _fitting_ into society. That didn't mean he took a shower everyday, no, god forbid. But, whatever.

He wandered aimlessly around until his stomach nicely reminded him that he hadn't eaten a thing sine he'd left his apartment, and he hadn't taken any breakfast either. Begrudgingly, and only because he knew he had a long day ahead of him, he sneaked into a shady pub in one of those side-alleyways, and ordered something to eat. That what did he want? Oh, whatever, he said, only nothing that resembled stew.

.

.

.

Kisara had dutifully sent the results of the autopsy to the New Scotland Yard, so the papers were waiting for him when he came back. To read it in peace and quiet, he was given a large, if shadowy, office not too far from the chief inspector's (much to his delight… not), so he got himself a cup of strong coffee and hid in his den to chew on the post-mortem and concoct a report himself. If he was lucky, at least four hours of intense _fun_ awaited him…

When he was done, it was dark outside already, and his eyes throbbed and were reddened. The case he had between hands was unusual at least in that he was, at the moment, working side by side with the cops. Such a situation had only happened twice or so since he'd been working, and it was mainly due to the fact that the woman was disfigured beyond recognition, and the forensics had as of yet failed to find a match for her dental records. So she remained nameless until the results of the DNA test, and Bakura had had no family to call for an inquest or notify of the autopsy. This also meant he had carte blanche to order any other tests or studies that needed be conducted on the body, and he'd already expressly given his consent to do so. (the woman was in really bad shape anyway… and "bad shape" was an euphemism)

As he re-read his report, he couldn't not notice that he'd done an excellent job at describing the body, even when, from the many photographs, it was clearly unnecessary to do so. The woman's face had been almost ripped off, according to the forensics with an object like a dagger or a large knife. The post mortem Kisara had written described different kinds of damages to her vital organs, most of which had happened while she was alive. Then her body had been cast into the river, and had washed ashore with the surf approximately four days later.

Needless to say, it was not a pretty thing to see, not even in photos.

The final pages of the autopsy report, included untouched in Bakura's own report, were concerned with a couple of obscure details about the corpse. First of all, the woman had been pregnant. Secondly, Kisara had found traces on her skin of some sort of scripture, done in ink, most probably; and the damage done to the inner organs seemed to match, somehow, those scripts. Everything had been sent to undergo further analysis, and the remaining script evidence had been packed and sent to a forensic specialist on the area.

He didn't re-read it a third time, he just put the thick report in a bursting manila envelope and took it to Kaiba. He only noticed how late it was when he went out to the corridor. The fluorescent lights were on still, but the darkness was a different kind of darkness when everybody had already gone home, he always felt it like that. His steps reverberated against the walls and case report fitments, dead emptiness, but Kaiba's office still had light because the man always worked overtime.

Bakura had meant to slip the envelope under the door, but it was too thick to fit, so he just opened the door and came inside like he always did, abruptly and without warning. He knew it annoyed the inspector, but it he'd also startled him this time, the older man did not show. He looked up from a form he was filling, and looked at the Coroner as if to say, _so? What now?_

Bakura tossed the report on the desk, and it landed on it with a dry _thump_, it was also a heavy thing. "That's it," he said.

Kaiba emitted a thoughtful _mmmhmmh_. "I'm ecstatic."

"Wait until you read it," the coroner said between teeth, "You'll be screaming for more."

Silence. Total, uncomfortable silence.

"Get up early tomorrow, coroner," the inspector said, "Your work, I think, is far from over."

"I adjourned the inquest already, and gave my consent for any rat lab-like thing you may want to do to the body," Bakura informed him, displeased at hearing what he'd just heard.

"Just do it, and get your ass here early," Kaiba advised, "I just have that feeling, that we may be needing you."

Bakura shrugged and left, rather rudely, but he really answered to no one. Kaiba remained in his office for much longer than was healthy.

As the coroner came out of the building, the streets were cold and deserted. He carried a watch in his coat's pocket, he didn't wear it because the wrist belt had thinned off and he'd never bothered to fix it. It told him it was well past ten pm. He looked to both sides of the dead, foggy street (he could see his breath mix with the fog, and it was rather creepy), and, shrugging again, began to walk back to his apartment.

* * *

><p><strong>Characters:<strong>

*** Kisara Bluewhite: forensic pathologist, mid thirties.**

*** Robert Zork: the previous Coroner, from whom Bakura inherited the title. Obviously based on Zork Necrophades, who's _always_ teaching the tools of the trade….. :S **

I forgot to introduce the late Robert Zork in last chappy, sorry. It's not like he's doing much, anyway. But the office of Coroner is inherited, so… I thought it was interesting.

_Some note on these character's names:_

_- Kisara Bluewhite… it's rather self-explanatory, right? And Englishpeople do tend to use colors as last names… like "" and "Joe Black" and stuff._

_- Rob Zork… absolutely stolen from Rob Zombie. I couldn't resist the pun, sorry._

-.-.-.-

**First things first, really, I wanted to make this chapter long. But until they get the results from the DNA analysis, they can't do much. So, next chappy will be the long one, in which stuff actually _happens_. Bear with me a while longer :P**

**Thanks to my awesome reviewers. I swear on this story that I'd never ever gotten such amazing, constructive criticism. You guys do encourage me to go on, and I'm forever thankful :)**

**Next chapter****: As the murder victim's identity is revealed, Bakura is swept into investigating the extremely mysterious circumstances of her death. Who was she? New characters come into the picture to try to answer that, and an old character is brought into light.**


	5. Chapter 5

_First day of inquest._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

When the Coroner entered the New Scotland Yard, the place was in chaos despite it being 7:00 am on a Wednesday. The downpour had been more insistent than the mere drizzle of the previous day, and, as always, Bakura had come walking, and, as always, he'd not brought an umbrella.

He was drenched and cold, but definitely very awake, and almost immediately understood what the deal was. The wheels were turning. There was new information. He'd smoked his lungs off before leaving his apartment that morning, so the home plant at the entrance of the building was left untouched, and he strode directly up the staircase to Kaiba's office.

He'd barely set foot over the threshold, that the chief inspector (who had dark bags under his eyes that seemed almost tattooed onto his skin) looked up from his paperwork and frowned. Tuesday had been a painfully uneventful day, with the forensics working their magic behind the closed doors of their labs, Kaiba chewing his cuticles off in wait for _something, _and Bakura had just sat the entire day filling forms and reports and generally being miserable.

But today, today Seth looked over his spectacles and said, matter-of-factly, "Isis Ishtar"

Bakura went poker-face at the inspector. "Yeah? So… what'ser name?"

"…". The inspector clearly ignored the question due to the jesting tone with which it'd been asked.

"It could be either…" Bakura continued, arms folded over his chest, dripping wet onto the freshly waxed parquet.

"Her surname is Ishtar," Kaiba informed, (Bakura took a seat even if he knew he'd be ruining the cushion) "…apparently, her family came from Egypt some years ago, and she never had a medical check-up, that's why it took so long to find out her identity."

Bakura _mhmm_-ed under his breath.

"Thankfully, for us at least, her brother had quite a few, and a criminal record too, but that's off-track for now."

Again, Bakura acquiesced vaguely.

"I'm still waiting for the archaeologist's work on the scripts on the body, but that'll take a couple of days more. In the meantime, Coroner," he said, looking straight into Bakura's eyes, "It's inquest time for you."

Bakura scowled.

"I'm getting a déjà-vu, chief," he growled, "Don't make me do your work."

"We're understaffed," Kaiba said coolly, "Do us the _favor_ of doing _your_ work for once, Bakura."

"You just like to screw around with the procedure, right?"

"Yeah, I have to admit I do. Now, about the inquest… I'd hate to tell you how to do your job, but it'd be… _nice_, if you could go talk to the fiancée of the victim, a mr. Rishid."

Shrugging, Bakura stood up, and, with a last glare over his shoulder at the inspector, left the office.

.

.

.

Officer Gardner shivered in the passenger seat, since Bakura drove with the window open, and it was _chilly_ outside. He was smoking, however, so it was probably better that he left the window open. On the other hand, she questioned the legality of smoking while driving.

But the Coroner was a very particular man, with those dark halos around his eyes that suggested lack of sleep and poor eating habits, and the fiendishly whitish hair tied in a high yet loose ponytail… and the seemingly unmatching high rank.

He parked by the entrance to an antique shop.

Mahmud Rishid was a muscular Arab, well-groomed and in his late thirties. He greeted them with impassive stoicism, and offered them to come in and have a seat. A plain door led from the shop into a living-like room, decorated with Spartan good taste- a great rug took up most of the floor, and on it, beautifully embroidered cushions were set around a very low table.

"Please take a seat, I will prepare tea," he said, in a courteous way, yet leaving no room for them to say any different.

The Coroner shrugged, something he found he was doing quite often these days, and sat on the foreign cushions that felt every inch as inviting as they'd looked. Officer Gardner hesitated.

"Is this actually ok? For us to take the hospitality of a-"

"Yes," Bakura cut her off, before she could say anything that compromised their _actual_ purpose, "We are holding an Inquest. That's civil procedure," he explained, although he knew it was something a bit obscure for a young policewoman to understand the first time, especially if they weren't doing exactly _that_.

"I, uhm," she started, "I've never done this. I didn't know I _could_…"

He rolled his eyes. "A coroner's officer or a police officer is the same in this case," he said, and said nothing more, and Officer Gardner entertained herself by looking at the patterns on the rug, and at the rather large photo of Mecca, the only picture that interrupted the wall's white.

Mahmoud Rishid returned some minutes later with a tray with cups and a teapot. Everything was very Arabian. Once the three of them had a smoking cup of very sweet auburn-colored tea before them, Bakura took his first and last sip of the comforting beverage and spoke, tearing apart the strange silence,

"Mr Rishid, as you may have noticed, I am a Coroner."

Rishid nodded gravely, never taking his eyes off Bakura. Officer Gardner marveled at the man's cool and collected attitude, that made her feel at ease in that otherwise stressful situation.

"I'm come to inform you of the death of Isis Ishtar. And ask some questions."

The tanned man gently placed the cup of tea he held on the table and closed his eyes. A slight frown crossed his brow, and Bakura understood that as the man going through a moment of intense grief and pain. He had to give it to him- he could hardly say he'd ever met someone so… intense. Officer Gardner was looking at her fingernails because she had to look at _something_, but the coroner could sense she was absolutely wishing herself _anywhere_ else than there.

_So's life, Gardner_, Bakura thought_, Bad news all the time- someone has to deliver them, eh?_

Rishid allowed himself some time to regain composure, and when he opened his eyes (very light hazel, almost yellowish), he appeared to be more or less the same man that'd offered them tea some minutes ago.

"Isis," he said, forlorn evident in his voice, "… she and I were supposed to marry."

The "supposed" didn't go amiss for Bakura. He sensed a "but" coming, and he was correct.

"However," Rishid went on, "she was not allowed to choose: her father conducted the arrangement." The coroner could read from the way he spoke that he'd not been too pleased about that.

"You're Egyptian, right?" Bakura interrupted him, while Officer Gardner took down notes, "That's not uncommon among Arabs."

"We're in England," was Rishid's wise answer, "Isis was wonderful, but I would have despised myself if she'd been forced to accept me."

Gardner was scribbling furiously, the coroner nodded for him to go on.

"She and I talked, and I told her she was free to decide," the man said, in his deep and even voice (he hardly had an accent), "She and I were almost like sister and brother. She'd been dating a younger man, for about two years now." Officer Gardner took down the name of the man and the address of his workplace.

"And you were ok with it," Bakura said, testing the waters.

Rishid nodded. "I respected her greatly, and she could confide in me."

"Relatives?" Bakura already knew what the official database of the Met could tell him, but the information the Met had was defective to say the least. The Ishtars were a peculiar, secretive family.

"Her father," the Egyptian said, "I don't know where he is now. We meet now and again, in social gatherings, but I only have his cellphone. You may take it down, if you want, he… he should be informed."

Officer Gardner dutifully wrote down Mr. Ishtar's number, while Bakura stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Her father alone?"

Rishid closed his eyes for a while, then opened them again to look into the Coroner's with renewed strength. "A younger brother too," he said quietly, "Malik. But he ran away not long after they came to England."

The coroner nodded. Quite the criminal record, the kid had- he'd been looking through it.

"Very well," Bakura said, standing up, "That's it, Mr. Rishid."

The Egyptian and Officer Gardner stood up too.

"If I could help with anything," Rishid told them, before they left, "I am at your service… Isis was… she was family to me. Her death is to me like the death of myself."

Bakura nodded and left for the black car, and a very touched Officer Gardner followed him suit.

The coroner started the engine.

"Where are we going now, sir?" Officer Gardner asked, although on her lap rested the notebook with the notes she'd taken down during Rishid's interrogation.

Bakura was concentrated in driving, so he replied only, "Mahad Sikh"

"Sikh is a curious last name," Officer Gardner said conversationally, "I wonder where he's from?"

Bakura side-glanced at her, and then returned to looking at the road, a contemptuous smirk playing on his lips. "It's not a last name, my dear officer," he said at last, trying to sound as little as he felt as possible, "The man _is_ a Sikh. That's a religion, you know. From India and whereabouts."

She _ohh_-ed. The Coroner could bet his rank she was blushing at her stupid question. "Those guys are the ones with the turbans, right?" she asked.

He nodded curtly.

"It won't be… dangerous, right?"

A policewoman asking _him_, that? Well, that was one reliable officer. "Mahmud Rishid was probably more dangerous than this man," he said under his breath, "do your maths."

She fell silent.

"Tell me that address again, officer," he asked her, and she fumbled with the notebook and found it. She read it to him, and he nodded, he was going in the right direction. It rather awed her, that he'd only listened to the address once when Rishid said it and he remembered it that well. The man was weird and rather scary, but he may not be as inefficient as the rumors went in the department.

Only now it occurred to her that Chief Inspector Kaiba might be the one that started them, since he was known for not liking the Coroner much. But then again, why would Kaiba, the top gun, bother with spreading around false rumors? As she distracted herself with those thoughts, Bakura parked again, this time before a very curious building.

.

.

.

Everything was white and rather foreign inside, and Officer Gardner gawked around the place as discreetly as she could while Bakura went to a small counter and asked for Mahad Sikh. The old receptionist, who also wore a turban, caught on the gravity of the situation quite fast and left to call the dead woman's _real_ fiancée.

The coroner walked up to Officer Gardner, who was looking at an intricate statue.

"The Sikh are very concerned about keeping their traditions," Bakura told her, "But this place is some kind of… something _else_ than a yoga center."

The policewoman didn't fully understand that Bakura wasn't saying that because he'd learnt it from the receptionist, but rather, because he was _feeling_ it. As it has been said before, Bakura, despite himself, was a very intuitive person… and his intuition and hunches were usually right (he'd also probably kept the job because of that… he'd given it a thought more than once).

A fairly tall Indian joined them as they were conjecturing, and Officer Gardner was mildly started when she saw him standing there.

"G-good afternoon, sir," she said politely, and Bakura nodded towards him.

"I am Mahad Sikh, I heard you looked for me?" he said- he had handsome, intelligent features, long dark hair, and a turban. He was simply clad in white cotton garments, also evidently foreign. Unlike RIshid, he had a strong accent, but it seemed to match his character perfectly.

Much as he'd done with Rishid, Bakura explained the reason why he and Officer Gardner were there. Mahad's eyes widened greatly, and he had to sit down in one of the cushioned chairs that were lined against the wall.

"I… I can't… Oh, Isis-" he said something in another tongue, and then buried his face in his hands and cried.

Officer Gardner shifted uncomfortably, and became even more uncomfortable when she saw the Coroner look impassively at the man, not even a shred of compassion or empathy traceable in his face.

When he became composed, Bakura asked him about his relationship with the victim was.

Eyes lost somewhere in the distance, Mahad told them he had met her in a seminar of Raja Yoga they were both taking, they'd fallen in love, and had been dating ever since. But she came from the Egyptian community, and her family (although her father was the only relative of hers he knew… and not even personally) strongly disapproved of her being involved with someone not pertaining to the community. So they had kept their relationship a secret. Still, they had agreed, a month ago or so, that they would get married.

"She was pregnant, did you know?" Bakura asked, rather tactlessly, but Officer Gardner was fast learning that was just his _style_… no use delaying the inevitable, and the truth is always the same, no matter how you coat it. Still, she cringed at the crudeness, and at the desolate look that overcame Mahad's face.

"I… I did not… Oh, curse me, universe," he said, and buried his face in his hands again.

"I have sinned in every possible way, against my Faith and the temple that was the woman I loved," he said quietly, "And she was to pay for my reckless disrespect of the Truth. I should _die_, I should-"

Officer Gardner felt she _must_ say something, because the Coroner was just standing there, arms folded, partly… amused? She chose not to know.

"It was not your fault, sir," she said kindly, the man was wrecking, "We _will_ find the killer and do justice. But we need your help."

Bakura cocked an eyebrow, it was not the work of a Coroner to find murderers…. Oh, to hell with that, it was not the work of a Coroner to do home visiting or whatever, and there they were. _Let the woman lie_ _if it helps us_, he thought.

"What did Ms. Ishtar do for a living?" she asked.

Mahad sat a bit straighter, and looked into her eyes. "She was a Pythoness."

Bakura froze. Officer Gardner froze.

"It was her true passion," Mahad said, "I cannot explain it. It is almost blasphemous for our Faith to believe in divination. But she had a gift… she could see _beyond_."

Officer Gardner nodded and decided she'd ask something different. "We have not found her father yet," she said, and it was true. She'd been calling the guys at the Met earlier, but they had no clue as to where the man could be. He, obviously, didn't answer the phone, but they would find him in time, she trusted.

"With that, I cannot help you," the Sikh said, "I did not know him myself. But, from Isis' tales, he was… very particular."

"You didn't report her missing," The Coroner asked-stated.

A shadow of a frown crossed Mahad's face, "There were times when she would meditate for days and when she was done she'd call me, so I didn't find it strange that she…."

.

.

.

Officer Gardner had been very, very silent as he drove back to the New Scotland Yard, the streets colorful with nightlife and streetlights and neon signs. After leaving Mahad Sikh, they'd driven around a bit, trying to find Ms. Ishtar's father, but to no avail.

It was probably the latest Officer Gardner had ever left the New Scotland Yard that night, after Bakura had returned the car and she'd gone to grab her belongings. The Coroner had muttered a good night, and walked into the night, and the young policewoman wondered if it was always like that for him. Dark, silent and lonely. But she was not paid to go all mother-henish at senior officers, so she shrugged and went home too.

.

.

.

Bakura slouched through the dim corridor with the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was probably to mortify him that Kaiba had dragged him into investigating the case, it was not part of his bloody _job_… at least not if they were going to be conducting a criminal trial. However, the damned chief inspector had seen to his being called as an advisor, or whatever, as if he were actually conducting an inquest.

Bakura could see where the matter was going. Kaiba wanted to make pretend that it was just routine procedure, and had him dig up apparently harmless information, while he and his detective scoundrels worked in the shadows. The Coroner sometimes wondered if he was paying beforehand for the wrongs in his life.

His key went into the keyhole, it turned, the door opened with a creaking noise that suggested that perhaps he might be interested in oiling the hinges; fat chance.

The greyish black overcoat landed halfway on a chair, he kicked out his boots and stripped off his navy blue uniform coat and unmatching blue trousers, and in a blink he was in his pyjamas- old joggings and a t-shirt that had been black a long time ago.

He felt he would have to do something about the laundry soon, he could strongly smell himself on the nightclothes he wore. But he was just so _tired_. He lit a cigarette and poured himself some whiskey while he waited for the rice to cook. Yes, he could actually make rice, it had taken him _years_ to perfect his technique.

A soft rapping on the door startled him.

His landlord stood respectfully outside the threshold, and as fresh air percolated into his apartment, he vaguely noticed that his place smelled like what it really was- old and dusty. He never really bothered to open the blinds, he left before clarity rose and returned home late when it was dark.

It was as if his landlord standing there marked the threshold not only between his apartment and the corridor, but between two different worlds unfolding in parallel. It was a weird sensation.

"Someone wants to talk to you," the younger man said, in his almost unnervingly calm and pleasant voice.

"It's 11.30 pm," Bakura grunted, "Tell 'em to go buy a watch."

The landlord shifted his weight against the doorframe. "He said, and I quote, _Mahad's a good man…_"

Bakura froze, and the landlord shrugged.

"Besides… the dead don't sleep."

* * *

><p><strong>Characters:<strong>

*** Officer Gardner: policewoman, early twenties. Her name is, as you might have suspected, Téa.**

*** Mahmoud Rishid: owner of an Antique shop. Fiancee of Isis Ishtar, old family friend of the Ishtars. Egyptian, in his late thirties.**

*** Mahad Sikh: Raja-Yoga instructor that seeks to conduct his students to the Truth, reaching the pure love and knowledge through the purification of the body. A Sikh, in his thirties. (in the canon, Mahaado, also. the Dark Magician ;) )**

**Thanks guys for the awesome reviews! A longer chapter, as promised. Did you like it? What do you think of the characters?**

**Next chapter: The Landlord's identity is revealed, and who is this mysterious visitor?**


	6. Chapter 6

_The very night of that inquest-Wednesday..._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

Bakura abhorred completely that linden tree growing on the 3x3 patch of garden. The earth was otherwise barren, as if the roots of the maleficent tree killed off any attempt at life, but, in turn, the stretch of checkerboard sidewalk that bordered the square garden was overcrowded with terracotta pots containing an unimaginable amount of plants, some of which Bakura had never seen in his life. The linden tree was flowering, and the air was impregnated with its persistent scent.

But though the air smelt of tea and biscuits and linden, Bakura was trembling unwillingly inside his coat, and his landlord was offering him a seat. Right, there were also a small coffee table and two chairs of white wrought iron out there in that little patio. There was no moonlight that night, the air was all impervious fog, but that fog acquired a luminescence of its own from the reflection of street lights, and made it all the more eerie.

Bakura, spooked as he always was when his landlord came into sight, took a seat as told.

He held no power and no willpower over the young man sitting opposite him. He watched him intently as the gentle-looking landlord poured tea into two chipped cups, had those been there before too? And the teapot? Bakura was nothing short of ready to call it witchcraft.

He _knew_ there was something of the sort in play.

He'd never known _what_… but the voices had always been there, the cold air drifts, the doors that opened and closed and the towels that went amiss, and all gained strength when the landlord was around, and then, not too long ago (what, a year ago? Two? More?) things had sort of changed, then _they_ had taken over everything and he, he could not _name_ it, you know, because he didn't _know_, but…

If caught off guard, he felt them. Snaking around the air like disnatured eels…

"You don't take sugar with your tea, right?" the Landlord asked, and Bakura shook his head no softly. Really, he did, only he never drank tea. Just hell-strong coffee, and he never took _that_ with sugar. His landlord had been misinformed for once, he smirked to himself, a private little victory… The smirk dropped. Nothing he could honestly be proud of.

Bakura was handed a warm cup of tea. It smelled wonderful, and Bakura felt like he could use a sip, but he didn't touch it. Just held it between his hands, absorbing the mild warmth.

"I don't think we ever got properly introduced," the landlord said conversationally to the tenant that looked at him oozing suspicion despite his lividness.

"_You_ know me already," the older man said with hostility.

"Hello," the landlord said amiably, blatantly ignoring him, and stretched out his hand over the little round table, "my name is Rhydwyn Ysbrid."

"…Excuse me?"

He hesitated. He daren't reach and shake his hand, call him coward all you wish.

The landlord smiled softly to himself and withdrew his hand. "Ryou, just call me that- everybody does."

Bakura looked intently at him. "Then why not say it first?"

"I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm English… I'm Welsh, you know," Ryou said pleasantly, as if he failed to see how uncomfortable the man across the table was.

Silence fell heavy on the coroner off-duty as his landlord sipped his tea. He felt like he was partaking in a ritual, and none of the too green plants seemed to want him to think otherwise. There were wooden masks on the walls, he noticed, wooden masks like tiki carvings or nameless gods from the Amazon rainforest, and they had been there, only that he had not seen them because the herbs on the pots grew so damned _tropical_, tropical, yes, in the very heart of London.

Witchcraft, that was what it all reeked of. Bakura couldn't think of anything else.

He shivered, twisted his white bony hands to hide it, kept his lips pressed together tight, so tight they became bluish, but it could also be because he was cold, and it was a coldness that crept from _inside_, as if the breathing plants around him would rob him of himself, that was all he had, and that was not much.

"You should relax," his landlord said, "You're always so tense around us."

How could he not? He freaking kept talking in _we_s and _our_s and _they;_ _they_, as if they were his freaking family-

But Bakura just scoffed. No spoken answer, since he feared he was not sure whether he was trusting his voice at the moment.

"Your tea will go cold," Ryou said gently. Bakura didn't touch it, he only shrugged.

"I made that myself, from the leaves of the plant behind you," the young man commented, and then said something of where he had gotten that plant from, but Bakura was not listening because he was too busy looking at his landlord's hands. Skeletal, much more corpse-like than his own, nails rimmed with a blackish edge, like a dead person's nails. Bakura knew. Bakura _could_ tell. Suddenly he felt nauseous.

Ryou sighed. "Anyway," he said, "I don't think you should get so little sleep."

Right. What had he been saying before? Bakura didn't know because a buzz was trying to take over his hearing, and he only wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again.

"You don't talk much," Ryou commented with a frown, never losing that concerned or amiable expression that the coroner did not trust at all. "I hoped I'd learn something of you…"

(Bakura snorted)

"…first-hand."

(Bakura choked, eyes wide open, mouth twitching downwards, teeth gritting)

_Torture_, his mind screamed, _this is torture. Let me go, already_…

A sigh. "But already we kept your visitor waiting long enough."

Later, Bakura would think of that moment as the moment when the world began to turn at a different pace. May be he had just suffered a shock of perspective. But, whatever it had been, certainly, something snapped.

But nothing visible changed. Ryou stared at Bakura for a long while before shaking his head, more to himself than to his spooked tenant.

"But I'm afraid it won't be easy, like I'd thought," he whispered privately.

He felt around his neck for a leather thread, and, pulling from it, took a pendant from underneath his pullover.

The sheer shift of energies put Bakura on guard, and his eyes were involuntarily drawn to the object like a magnet. What was that? Was it… He could swear it _called_ to him, said his name, spoke of power… When Ryou took it off and handed it to him, he hesitated.

"What is _this_?" he asked with suspicion. It looked, in essence, like a dream-catcher: a ring made of pure gold, encasing a pyramid, and five ornate danglers hung from the sides, as if marking the edges of a pentagram. Whatever it was, it was also very beautiful.

"My father and I bought it in Guatemala, but it's really Egyptian," Ryou explained, motioning for his interlocutor to take it.

Bakura still did not reach out to it.

"What's it for?"

The landlord's little smile did not set him at ease, very much on the contrary.

"I could explain it to you, or you can take it and see for yourself." He read Bakura's look immediately. "Don't worry," he reassured, "It's not harmful. I was wearing it two seconds ago."

The Coroner took the artifact much like a wild animal sneaks out of its cave and surveys the horizon for predators. The same air, the same look, Ryou noticed. _He is not completely wrong to be so guarded_, he thought a bit distracted.

The look on Bakura's face when his fingers clutched around the Ring was of transfixion.

He may have just seen his entire life flash before his eyes, or a vision of the Apocalypse, whichever it was, he wordlessly slipped the leather cord over his head and then, just as if it had _always_ been so, the powerful magical object hung over his chest. Even its weight seemed sort of familiar, and as soon as that thought crossed his mind, Bakura's vision changed. Perhaps for ever.

He had never worn glasses, but he imagined that they had a similar effect… The world suddenly falling into place, everything changing from unfocused to HD.

_Damn_, was the only thing that crossed Bakura's mind, as a mixture of awe and sheer terror had him looking around himself like a madman, like Ryou was the bloody Mad Hatter of the bloody tea party, and he… he'd been the freaking mouse in the teapot until just about two seconds before.

The linden tree was aflame with dancing lights like little fireflies, he _didn't_ want to know what _those_ were, and he also could clearly see _them_ now, they came in from the walls and flew out to the sky, talked to each other and dematerialized, never still, and always passing.

Except for one.

One of _them_ stood behind Ryou, his back resting against a wall as if he couldn't (he wouldn't) go through it, observing the unfolding events with a frown too human for Bakura's taste, and if a firefly-like light came close to it, he waved it away just like one could a fly.

"Hey Coroner," he said, "thanks for the private interview." He was tall and tan and handsome. "I need a favor of you," he spoke gravely, with this rich, youthful voice that seemed so unfitting to the situation.

"What the _hell_," was all Bakura could find it in him to say, "What the _bloody _hell…"

The Landlord cut in on Bakura's eloquence by coughing softly.

"Bakura, this is Malik," he introduced, and the figure leaning against the wall nodded in acknowledgement. "He's a spirit-"

"A _ghost_," the coroner murmured under his breath. "I can _see_ it. . . . _him_," he stated, and corrected himself reluctantly upon seeing the poisonous glare he got from the specter.

"That would be the Ring," Ryou pointed out, "See now what I meant? I couldn't explain, you had to see it. Yourself."

Bakura groaned. _This damned hex knew there was no way in hell I'd put this thing on if I'd be seeing stuff like I was on drugs, damn him…_

Malik's voice cut his chain of thoughts. "Ryou took a lot of trouble to get you here, so listen me now, would you?"

Finding that all he could do without betraying too much his true feelings was nod, well, nod he did, as if to say, _well, go ahead. You've got me listening._

Ryou's face was straight and attentive, making Bakura assume that he didn't know why the spirit had sought them out.

_Why me, of all people,_ the coroner was thinking, when Malik began to talk: "See, Coroner, I'm the brother of Isis Ishtar. Rings a bell, doesn't it?"

Bakura's eyebrows raised on their own accord, to mirror the surprise that assaulted him. _That _would_ explain why me of all people_, he thought, still shaken.

Malik read the Coroner's body language and nodded. So, that was clear. "I've a brother somewhere, younger than me-" he told, rather sour, "…'When I died, my father thought it was the best idea to change his name for mine, then it got nice and messy."

"What do you mean?"

The spirit _hmmm_ed. "…'guess the old man never read what _that_ did to Van Gogh… Besides, _he_ already had a name, I don't think he knows it, I don't."

Bakura nodded again.

The kid, his father had gotten him locked up in a mental institution a couple of years ago, Malik said. His face grimaced in pain as he told that, because he considered himself to be the reason why his brother had ended up there. "I've been dead quite a while," the blond spirit explained, "But I never could move on, (he shrugged) I never figured out how to. So I stayed around, and Malik could _see_ me... (Bakura noticed there the name issues the spirit mentioned earlier)"

"Wasn't your sister psychic too?" the coroner interrupted.

Malik nodded. "She handled things different, and father always had a soft spot for her, anyway. But yes, we talked, too…"

Ryou's face remained serene and impassive, as Malik returned to his story. "So, my brother had _billions_ of other issues, but talking to the air (and he did it blatantly to creep the hell out of father, too), was just the last straw." His voice was sour and his face expression was hostile as he told this. "It was when I lost track of him… he broke out of that hell hole and never returned home again. Father had an insane fear of him… He _may_ have been right to be scared, though."

Bakura more or less could feel he knew where all this was going, but decided not to try to guess, and nodded yet again, to show he was following Malik.

"I never tried to find him again," the spirit said, "It was all my damned fault he ended up in that hideous place. If I weren't stupid and could figure out how to move on, he may be sane… saner. When he left, I also stopped seeing Isis-I only wanted to know how I could… you know."

It was Ryou the one that nodded this time.

"I heard Isis today," Malik finished simply, "She was very vague (she always was like that…), but she told me that I had to protect Malik," his eyes were downcast as he said this, "I sensed something was wrong… and it turned out she'd died. But I can't feel her here, so _she_ must be in the Afterlife."

"She _could_ have told you something more useful, don't you think?" Bakura told the spirit, "Like, who her _killer_ was."

Malik shrugged. "So, you believe me?"

Bakura shrugged. "I'm _talking_ to you, ain't I?"

"Will you help my brother, then?"

"Last thing I knew," the coroner said gravely, something not too usual in him, "The cops were looking for him. Couldn't find your father either."

"You've got to help him," Malik cut him off, "he didn't kill her, _she_ told me…."

"Technically, she didn't," Bakura taunted. He was being sarcastic to a ghost. _Way to go_, he thought grimly. (Ryou was smirking privately. He was also a creepy little thing… well.. not that he didn't know that from _before_…)

"I'll do what I can," the coroner said, like one without pretty much powerless, "And I'm not a detective…" he added, looking intently at the spirit that stood behind his Landlord.

Malik smirked. "You're as good as one…"

Bakura shrugged, again, and muttered a _whatever_. Ryou was resting his chin on his palm, listening to the exchange very quietly, with a look on his face between sly and peaceful.

The spirit pinched his brow, but when he looked at the coroner, he was smiling rather sadly, and he said, "So… do we have a deal?"

.

.

.

Ryou alone walked with Bakura all the way back to his apartment. The coroner had not noticed it before, but the inner garden was not easily accessed from the apartments- one needed to walk through a series of narrow corridors and empty rooms to get to it, and it was maze-like if one did not know the way.

"What about the Ring?" Bakura asked quietly before he opened his apartment's door.

Ryou answered immediately, as if he'd thought about that already. "I'spouse I can lend it to you until you solve Malik's mystery," he said, not giving the artifact much importance apparently. Which was funny, because Bakura found it oddly like something one did not easily part with.

"And you?"

"I'm not a rookie, Bakura," Ryou said, of course, Bakura already knew _that_, "I know a thing or two."

_Damn sure you do_, the coroner thought rather displeased, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Ryou smiled at him, the very serene smile of someone with a clear conscience. "Good night, Bakura," he bade, but he paused midway before leaving, before Bakura was out of hearing range.

"You know," he added thoughtfully, "_They_ are starting to like you better."

"I'm thrilled," Bakura murmured grimly and closed the door. He wondered if knowing that the resident ghosts of the apartment complex were less prone to do ungodly things to him would make up for the fact that it was well over 2 am, and he was supposed to get up at 6 the following day…

.

* * *

><p><strong>*Rhydwyn "Ryou" Ysbrid: <strong>the Landlord, mid twenties. He inherited the apartment complex from his father, an archaeologist, who also took him around the world.

**A note as regards his name: **_Rhydwyn_ is an actual Welsh name, made from elements meaning "white; blessed" and "ford; crossing". Also, _Ysbrid_ is Welsh for "spirit".

oo.o.o.o.

**A/N: Well well, the story took a (rather unexpected) twist, didn't it?**

**Thanks a TON to those who reviewed the preivious chapter. And I'd like to know-**

**-what thinketh thou of Rhydwyn Ysbrid? (he's WELSH! take that, Little Kuriboh xD)**

**-what do you think about the turn of events?**

**(it's a big shift, and I'd really like to hear your thoughts about it :) )**

**Next chapter: Our coroner begins yet another day of inquest under rather peculiar circumstances. Will he be able to honor the promise he made to Malik? Will Malik be contented with just surveying from the sidelines? And what about the Landlord?**

**.**

_Edit: sorry for re-posting, I had some troubles with the document-uploader and it was eating out bits and spaces :P_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thursday and Friday_

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

6 a.m., and the coroner got up in a trance-like state, got changed, forgot to smoke and left his cigarettes behind also, and somehow made it to work on record time. Then he shut himself in his office and came out at about midday, with a frightening stack of paperwork to be sent to the registrar. Because while he'd been out doing cop work, many people had died of non-normal circumstances, and guess what? They all needed their death certificates! And who was in charge of that, again?

A Coroner that, besides being innately prone to irresponsibility, had been running from one point of the city to the bloody other.

Anyway.

Officer Honda happened to be carrying himself some papers around, so Bakura called him.

"Good morning, or rather afternoon, sir," Honda greeted, and the coroner secretly loathed his good mood. Secretly.

"'Morning, officer," he said plainly, noting how he didn't have time to afford it being afternoon just _yet_. "I've some papers for you," the coroner smirked.

Honda's cheer dropped a degree or two. "Alright, sir. Nothing new about the case, by the way."

Bakura quirked an eyebrow as he added his stack of papers (he'd put them in a carefully labeled box, mind you) to the one the officer carried already.

"The father didn't show up, and we weren't lucky with the brother," Honda sighed, "Combed half the city and the punk won't show up. But no one seems to know him either, it's rather creepy."

(Bakura shrugged. If the officer only _knew_…)

"Still, we have this crazy lead… anyway, we've to wait till tomorrow to follow it, because…" he scratched the back of his head, "It has to do with an appointment. We'll let you know tomorrow early afternoon, sir."

The Coroner nodded.

.

.

.

Detective Chief Inspector Kaiba didn't smoke, didn't gamble, drank whisky only rarely (though a thick glass on his desk suggested this was one of those rare happenings,) and generally he was a good citizen, with a large, luxurious apartment, a clever hound that kept him company, and a very empty life in all that was not work-related.

But he managed. And he was a good inspector. An even better detective.

When Bakura came into his office, he found the older man gazing out the window, deep in thought.

"There's a murderer running around out there, Coroner," he muttered, and Bakura sat down (with a very sloppy, unprofessional posture) and looked at the inspector with mild scorn.

"Wipe that little smirk off your face," Kaiba said, without even doing as much as _glancing_ at the Coroner –they just knew each other too well, perhaps- "It's not amusing- he, or whomever, out there, thinking they're outwitting us."

He spoke the words as if he were prodding into a deep wound that hurt only himself. The Coroner cared little about the death of one Isis Ishtar, cared even less about what it going unsolved did to the bureau's reputation. It was just his job, he still got paid (although he _was_ kind of overworking over this case, whatever). But that did not keep him from feeling it like a personal challenge he was losing.

"Done with your love letters to the registrar, I presume?" the inspector asked, changing subjects, taking a seat in front of Bakura, who nodded, still amused (Kaiba amused him, somehow, he just couldn't help it. Maybe he reminded him of himself, and if he didn't laugh, he'd have to screech.)

"They'll be very much in love with me when they get them," Bakura said under his breath, this time, being him the one to elicit a small smirk from his interlocutor.

"Right. Our specialist got the script on the victim decoded, go check that up," Kaiba instructed, without even trying to mitigate the harshness of the order, handed the Coroner a small folder.

"Moody much, inspector? Do I make a sonnet out of the report?" Bakura slyly asked.

Kaiba shrugged. "If it pleases you. Get going."

.

.

.

The Coroner was only going to retrieve a report and an explanation, so he didn't find it necessary to take any police officer with him on that little outing.

_That_ may have influenced the way he almost jumped out of his skull when someone on the passenger's seat spoke to him.

"Good afternoon, Bakura," his Landlord greeted.

Bakura's reaction was automatic: "What the _bloody hell _are _you_ doing _here_?" He asked, perhaps too loud (like one who has been taken by surprise).

Ryou was wearing a brown overcoat and a scarf, and his shrugging was barely perceptible underneath his clothing. "I couldn't contact you, so I came myself."

The Coroner quirked an eyebrow.

"Malik was a bit… impatient," the Landlord said nonchalantly, a demeanor Bakura had never seen in him before, "I decided to join you, to see how you fare. And perhaps I can be of some help."

"Why would-"

Ryou smiled slowly, looking him in the eye. "I thought you knew, I do more than only _talk_ to the dead…"

Goosebumps took over the coroner's body. "Can't say I didn't suspect it…"

It was not a long drive to Hackney.

As it was part of their deal that Ryou would not pry into Bakura's work (they'd settled that: he would not have him followed by a ghost to see what the Coroner did or did not…), the landlord didn't honestly know where they were going, or what it was they were going to do. So he asked.

"Where are we going?"

Innocent enough, right? Oh, but Bakura was just too used to shivering when the younger man spoke to him. He'd have to stop doing that, it gnawed on his tough appearance.

"Some specialist figured out the meaning of some curious scripts on the victim's body. So we're paying him a little visit," he said.

"And where's that?" a third voice asked from behind. Malik. Right. The specter _was_ part of the deal.

Bakura actually had to make an effort to un-grit his teeth. He was driving with a ghost in the back seat. Okay. It was nothing out of the ordinary. He could manage it. "The LAARC. There's that."

"It's the London Archeological Archive and Research Centre," Ryou explained, turning round to look at the tan ghost, "But it's weird," the landlord mused, "I was under the impression that people in the LAARC did other stuff." (Bakura was not surprised that he seemed to know a lot about that.)

The Coroner shrugged. "We'll see when we get there."

.

.

.

The specialist was, as it turned out, _both_ an archaeologist and an anthropologist. As Bakura read the report, his landlord talked to the man, Dr. Yamil Atem, who was tanned beyond health from being constantly working in outdoor archaeological sites.

"I am lending a hand here at the moment," the archaeologist said, with a deep voice that commanded respect and obedience. Probably he ruled dig sites like a kingdom, and Bakura found himself not liking the man much. He reeked too much of success.

"But this is not your actual area of work, right?" Ryou asked, clearly interested. Malik hovered around the large, luminous studio, and loomed over a large map on a table. Now and then, Ryou and Bakura heard him mutter things in Arabic.

"No," Dr. Atem said, "I mostly conduct my investigations in theMiddle East. Right now, I am also working with the BBC on a documentary about how global warming is affecting the façade of Abu Simbel…" he trailed off, but immediately returned to the studio, "Anyway, the Museum of London asked for my help with some ancient remains they found not too far from here, and while I was at it, inspector Kaiba contacted me."

"So if you're not forensic, why did you take the job?"

Atem smiled-smirked: "I'd never done anything like this before, and it sounded like a challenge…"

"So," the Coroner began, having finished with the report, "Why do you believe that writing on the victim to be _ceremonial?_"

"Well," Dr. Atem replied thoughtfully, "It's all very detailed in the report…"

"If I thought printed words were enough, I would've had you send it by post or something, _doctor_," Bakura said smoothly.

It was clear that Dr. Atem did not find the Coroner's words flattering, but before he could say anything equally caustic in return, Ryou spoke.

"What he means, doctor," he interrupted in a very polite manner, "Is that it'd be… insightful to know your opinion…" He paused to think, then said, "You know… personal considerations you wouldn't include in an official report."

Bakura nodded, reminding himself he had to do his job, and his subjectivity was irrelevant. So he had to thank the Landlord and credit him, he was a sly thing.

"That's precisely what I meant," the Coroner said in a low voice. He was also tacitly giving Ryou permission to ask the anthropologist whatever he may deem necessary, and, as expected, Ryou caught on fast.

Yamil Atem sighed, and shook his head slightly (he also seemed to be putting aside his subjective assessment of the Coroner), and, seeing that the three of them were standing up, he invited both men to take a seat. There were four individual sofas around a classy round table, by a window that overlooked a beautifully plotted inner garden. They sat down, and Dr. Atem offered tea, but Bakura would rather be done with the interview. The fourth sofa was seemingly empty, but Bakura and Ryou could see Malik perched on one arm, eager to listen to the specialist.

"Ask 'im what he means, ceremonial?" Malik said. Ryou obliged.

"Well," said Dr. Atem, looking out of the window, "Ms. Ishtar was Egyptian, was she not?" He asked though he knew very well the answer to _that_, and Bakura nodded in response.

"It _is_ quite… unusual, not to say plain odd," Atem allowed himself a small smile at the use of the unprofessional term, "I could read parts of it, because much of it had smudged… Knowing that the body spent some time in the river, my guess is that the herbal dye used for inking the scripts was strong and oily. Anyway, I could save enough to know it was a spell… and written in Coptic."

He paused, to see what reaction _that_ provoked. Ryou did lift his eyebrows in mild surprise, but Bakura, he just looked at the anthropologist as if to say _well? What's so great about that?_

Dr. Atem shook his head. "Hardly anyone knows that language any more. It stems from the Hieratic language, did you know? Hieratic was the cursive writing used in Ancient Egypt as an alternative to hieroglyphs," he explained, mainly for the Coroner to understand, "Well, anyway, it is extremely rare to find someone familiar with Coptic script- on a side note, most of the remaining speakers are members of the Coptic Orthodox Church."

Bakura felt he had to say something, but the best he came up with was "Aha…"

"But this spell, on the body, it seemed to invoke old gods- like Ptah and Hathor. Weird that it'd be written in _Coptic_, of all languages… I could not tell, however, if this is relevant for your investigation. For all that I know, from what little I could salvage, this woman could have had those words written on her while she was alive." He shrugged, and silence fell down on the three of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Bakura could see Malik chewing on his lower lip. He was very tempted to ask the ghost about the specialist's words, but it would have just been dumb. He'd have to wait.

"That means you understand Coptic?" Ryou ventured. (Bakura lifted an eyebrow)

"I'm a lecturer inCairoUniversity," Dr. Atem winked, making the landlord smile.

"That's rather mystic," he commented, and it was time for Yamil Atem to smile.

"_You_ of all people present would be talking of mystic, it figures," he said. Ryou looked taken by surprise, if for a second… a second that did not go amiss for Bakura, and he narrowed his eyes.

Atem was smiling calmly. "I can tell from your earring, and the tattoos on your hands. _You_ are also extremely rare."

The Coroner hid his rising alarm remarkably well, and watched mutely as Ryou closed his eyes and smiled in acknowledgement and resignation, and Atem stood up and fetched something from a drawer in his desk.

"This is a sample I took from the ink on the body," he explained, and handed Ryou a little glass bottle with a couple of dry black flakes inside. "I find that you may make something out of it."

"That's very flattering, doctor," the Landlord said, pocketing the little bottle. "Hopefully…" he trailed off.

There was nothing more to say: Bakura had already learned all he could from Dr. Atem, and, apparently, the one who _could_ do something now was Ryou. Though it beat him _why_. He'd have to ask later. If he dared to… _We'll see_, he thought magnanimously.

The archaeologist guided them to the door, but he hesitated before he saw them off.

He addressed Ryou: "I was wondering, Mr.…"

"Ysbryd," the Landlord supplied gently, and saw Yamil Atem's eyes glint in recognition. Was he related to Dr. Ysbryd, the archaeologist, he asked, and Ryou said that he was, he was his son.

"I see… no wonder, you seemed familiar… Anyway, then, Mr.. Ysbryd… I wondered… would it be too much to ask…" All of a sudden, the incredibly confident doctor Atem was faltering. He eyed Bakura with doubt, and settled for asking something in a whisper in Ryou's ear.

The Landlord's eyes widened and then softened. "I don't see why not. You are correct, Dr. Atem, it _is_ a rare trait…"

"Of incalculable anthropologic worth," the doctor finished kind of sheepishly.

Ryou sighed. "I must warn you, though, I know little about it myself. It is the vede for a loa I am not familiar with, a local loa fromMartinique."

For all that Bakura could understand, they could have been talking in another language for all he knew. He did feel left out, and even more so when Atem eyed him like he was not trustworthy, and asked his Landlord,

"…and him?"

Ryou smiled privately and shook his head. "Bakura is like family to me, doctor," he explained (and it did take the Coroner by surprise, that statement) "And it may be time I shared this with him, too."

Needless to say, the Coroner felt clueless and puzzled, and that irked him to no end. What _was_ he about to become part of? What if he didn't _want_ to know about whatever the Landlord spoke of? Shouldn't he have a say in that?

Apparently not, so he decided to play poker face. Doctor Atem's eyes glowed with some strange kind of excitement… the coroner could only imagine a face like that on him when he was about to discover a sealed tomb no one had ever stepped into, like Tutankhamen's. So far, all that Ryou had done was take off his scarf, and he was starting to unbutton his thick coat, and Bakura couldn't think of any professional reason why the anthropologist would be _so_ interested in him. Well, but he could think of _non_ professional reasons… But if that was the case, would Ryou have said what he'd said?

Bakura didn't want to think any more, because now he was getting these strange mental images that he would have never ever wanted to have.

The Landlord (seemingly deep in thought) had taken his coat off already, was taking his pullover off, was beginning to unbutton his shirt. Bakura, made self-conscious by the awed look in Atem's face, had to divert his eyes. What a shitty situation. He couldn't believe he was on duty.

"_Amazing,_" he heard Yamil Atem exclaim under his breath.

He indulged. He looked.

His landlord hadn't opened his white shirt completely- he'd barely uncovered half of his chest and part of a shoulder… and Bakura felt the need to agree with Atem's choice of words, and maybe add a _what the hell_…

"I must confess, Mr.. Ysbryd, I had never seen this myself. Not even in photographs… I had only _read_ about… _Amazing_," Dr. Atem said.

An intricate tattoo occupied most of his right pectoral and part of his shoulder. Bakura hadn't seen such a thing in his life either- the drawing had been made with green ink, he assumed, because it had acquired a distressing color… like… venomous.

"Veves are symbols used to invoke _loas_, voodoo deities," Atem commented, reading from the Coroner's face that he was not catching on what was going on.

Ryou quickly buttoned his shirt up again, and smiled serenely at the anthropologist. All the while, Bakura had felt Malik following the events closely without paying them much attention. As if he, unlike them, _had_ seen that before, as if he _knew_ what it all was about.

On that note, _he_ seemed to be the only one who didn't.

"I _am_ thankful for this, sir," Atem told Ryou, shaking his hand, "I would have never _dreamed_ of meeting a houngan. Much less of one walking into my office."

Ryou, Bakura noted, seemed to be doing a lot of smiling lately, and he wasn't sure he was comfortable with that. "The least I could do, since you've entrusted valuable evidence to me."

Yamil Atem shook his head. "If you could share the results with me when you have them, I'd be most honored."

"I will," the landlord said magnanimously, "But as for the methods, I'll keep them private." A sly smile. Ryou didn't smirk.

The anthropologist closed his eyes and smiled as well. "I thought so…" He shook Bakura's hand, with considerably less animosity.

"Good luck, coroner," he wished, and saw the two men walk out the door.

.

.

.

"A houngan…" Bakura began, once they were back in the car. He frowned. "The hell is that? You might as well be talking in Indonesian."

Malik's voice drifted towards him from the back seat where the ghost was sprawled. "That's a voodoo doctor, you moron," he informed with mild irritation at the Coroner's seeming lack of information.

The man in question didn't react, he just turned to look blankly at Ryou, who was looking out of the window, not appearing too preoccupied.

Bakura did not want his brain to process the possible implications of such a discovery.

But the first thing that distressed him was that he'd been living for _years_ under the same roof with a person who could…

"Can you make zombies?" he asked (rather dumbly). It worked, however, to get Ryou out of his contemplative daze-like state. The younger man turned to him with a slight smile.

"Yeah, but it's not pleasant either for me or _them_. It's been years since I made one." He paused, and added, "Besides, you need black magic to make zombie. And I'm not really into that kind of stuff."

Bakura remained blank; Malik, in the back, snorted.

"This veve I carry, the tattoo… it seals and enhances spirit powers. That's why I don't really _need_ the Ring," the landlord explained.

"If I piss you up I'm screwed, right?" Bakura asked slowly.

Ryou didn't answer, but Malik did.

"Yeah, pretty much," the blond ghost said, and his answer hung in the air as the Coroner started the engine.

.

.

.

Bakura drove Ryou downtown, where he had something to do (and Malik went with him, since he regarded the landlord as much pleasanter company than the coroner), and then headed alone to the HQs of the Met.

Kaiba was out doing field work, so he left Dr. Atem's report on his desk.  
>After asking around, he came to the conclusion that there weren't new leads on the case, so he just returned to his own office and got some paperwork done.<p>

For the first time in weeks, he went home earlier than planned.

Although he tried not to think about what he'd learned that day, he found himself trapped in a loop of magic-related thoughts. _Unbelievable_, he gloomed, _ghosts and voodoo. I don't want to know anything anymore_…

A neighbor greeted him as he walked to his apartment, he almost _growled_ back a greeting. A resident ghost greeted him too, to this, he did not reply, just side-glanced at the apparition and shivered.

Thankfully, inside his dark and dusty apartment, there seemed to be no ghosts at the moment.

At the moment.

He reckoned something had changed in him, or was changing, if slowly, because he walked over to the window and pulled up the blinds. A bleak light filtered from outside, and, through the open window, a steady breeze came in and made the air inside circulate. As if the rooms breathed.

He lit up a burner and heated some water. He _did_ need coffee, fast, and while he waited, he lit up a cigarette, then another, then another, and he meditated. Kind of.

That murder investigation he'd been swiped into, it advanced at a desperately slow pace, if it advanced at all. There was no such thing as a lead, a suspect. Clues? They were running out of those. Kaiba being out there taking matters into his own hands was a good proof of that.

And then there was this thing of Malik.

And this other little issue with his landlord the voodoo witch.

Bakura suddenly remembered something. Earlier that day, officer Honda had told him that they were expecting to be able to do something about the MIA brother the following day. He'd said it was a… how had he called it? A "very crazy lead". Well, the Coroner was currently learning a thing or two about crazy things.

He guessed that if their lead turned out to be a dead-end, he could always have Malik cooperate. The guy was a _ghost_, sure he could use his powers to track his brother down, right? Despite the dreadful guilt he seemed to carry around. It was funny, but the Coroner perceived the ghost to be rather… hesitant. As if he had mixed feelings about the brother he said he meant to protect.

Well, whatever, that wasn't his business.

Bakura went to sleep that night without having anything for dinner, because his stomach seemed to be on strike at the moment. He was much more serene now that he was slowly coming to terms with his situation, but there was still one thing, the _tiniest_ detail, that rang in the back of his head insistently. Nothing would change the fact that he was _investigating a _murder, something WAY out of the scope of his (legal) powers, and that he was now doomed, apparently, to keep on doing that, but with a voodoo doctor and a ghost on his trail…

.

.

.

It was one of those rare middays when the sun shone, if weakly, over the gunmetal grey city.

He ran, the cops close behind, biting his dust. He was exhausted. He'd been running away for half an hour now, and felt strength failing him, or starting to, which was the same, because it'd mean he was ruined.

Truth be told he wasn't sure _why_ they were persecuting him, truth be told; he couldn't think of a reason why they _wouldn't_ be persecuting him. What hadn't he done?

He dashed round a corner, grabbing the pole of a streetlamp to turn faster and gain speed, a blind alley, no problem; he reached the dirty steel grip and jump-climbed it up (he'd done parkour a couple of years ago before he'd broken his arm, then he'd decided to play it safe).

"Bite it, bitches," he muttered under his breath, but as he came out of the alley, he was surrounded by cops. His brain worked at a 110% to device a way to get out, but until that, he put his arms up, he knew how it worked, it was better if he gave up at that stage because it was easier to get out of custody if he was unharmed, he'd tried to after they'd beaten him into compliance that one time, and it had not been _nice_.

"Geez, man," a police officer with his brown hair up in a sort of shark-fin-like hairdo told another cop, "They always run like this when they've a criminal record, even if they don't have a clue why we wanna talk to 'em."

"Yeah," the other conceded, then looked at _him_ as if he were a poisonous snake "It's quite a catch, this one, ain't it, Honda?"

Honda nodded, frowning. "Yeah, and creepy like hell." He chewed on his cheek, "That's been my luck lately."

Meanwhile, he stood silent, looking at the cops talk about him as if he weren't there at all. They had handcuffed him while they talked, too, so he could only glare a death wish at both of them, and contemplate his options.

"What do you want," the other officer said, "that's Coroner business for you." Honda nodded, deep in thought.

He perked up at that. _Coroner_? He thought, puzzled, (and it probably showed on his face, too) _That sure as hell don't sound like prosecution._

"Yeah, about that," Honda said, "It's high time I took this guy to the Coroner. And he'd better question this guy senseless, for all the trouble it took us to catch'im." And the police officer looked direct into his eyes.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked him.

He didn't say anything, just kept glaring.

"Cooperate," Honda said, lifting an eyebrow in a very self-explanatory way.

"Have none," he said reluctantly, and his voice came as a surprise to both cops that were dealing with him, because it was deep and very masculine, absolutely not like they'd been expecting, if they'd been expecting anything at all. He was looking away trying to hide an emotion the police officers couldn't name at all when Honda told him to quit wasting their times.

"None, man," he said again, and the officers exchanged looks.

"An alias?" Honda ventured. His prisoner shrugged, but a feral smirk lit up his features in a savage way as he said "Tomb Keeper."

.

* * *

><p><strong>Characters:<strong>

***** **Yamil Atem**: Archaeologist and anthropologist, specializes in Middle Eastern history. Holds a temporary post in the LAARC as an advisor to a team of scientists digging in the outskirts ofLondon for ancient remains, of what they believe it to have been an Iron-Age settlement.

The name _Yamil_ is actually an Arabic name, and it means "beautiful" or "handsome". I also found that it can mean "one twin", in which case, it's a very interesting choice of name… :P

**As for the voodoo-related vocabulary, I prepared a little glossary:**

* **Houngan** = voodoo priest

*** **The **Loa** (also _Lwa_ or _L'wha_) are the spirits of the voodoo religion. the loa are not deities in and of themselves; they are intermediaries for a distant Bondye ("good god")

*** Veve** or **Vévé** is a religious symbol commonly used in Haitian Vodou. It acts as a "beacon" for the loa, and will serve as a loa's representation during rituals.  
>"<em>The veves represent figures of the astral forces... In the course of Voodoo ceremonies, the reproduction of the astral forces represented by the veves obliges the loas ... to descend to earth<em>."  
>Every Loa has his or her own unique veve […] A veve is usually drawn on the floor by strewing a powder-like substance, commonly cornmeal, wheat flour, bark, red brick powder, or gunpowder, though the material depends entirely upon the ritual.<p>

**_(And feel free to ask me anything that's not clear, because I had to do a lot of research for this chapter!)_**

**A/N: Also, talk about a turn of events…! This is the longest chapter so far… Dr Atem was not too easy to write, I hope he did give the impression of being a very competent, rather conceited scientist… if I failed at the "too excited about the anthropologic aspects of people" attitude he displays when he talks to Ryou, blame Dr. Brennan from "Bones" :P**

**And now, Replying-to-the-wonderful-reviewers-time!**

**Shokogoddess: **yesh! There's no Bakuras without Ring :P And they are doomed to share it! A scary Ryou and a scared Bakura… we'll see what comes out of that one. :P

**Rivertear:** hopefully Ryou is less creepy now that we know a bit more about him…? Or maybe not… well… it's going to be a long while until Bakura finds him less creepy. And Malik certainly doesn't help…! xD

**Hana-Liatris:** DANCE VOODOO DANCE! With Doctor Atem ;)

**Next chapter: someone is taken into custody, and someone is invited to dinner.**

_Edit__: Thanks to RiverTear for pointing out that titles like Dr. and Mr. go with capital letters! Fixed that!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Friday afternoon and Saturday morning._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

The New Scotland Yard had a reception-like space, a rather luminous corner of the entrance hall with some sofas and a coffee table. It was 3.30 p.m., and the place was fairly empty.

When Bakura came in, Ryou and Malik following behind him, he stopped at a distance to assess the teenager with the mohawk that lay on the sofa, arms behind his head, looking at the high ceiling, evidently giving a damn about his whereabouts. The Coroner also saw a couple of police officers keeping watch on the young delinquent from afar.

The kid was not, perhaps, what he'd been expecting, if he'd been expecting anything. He looked almost like the transparent Malik that floated behind him, only that his hair was all spiked, and the choice of clothing was obviously different- this guy wore red tartan trousers, heavy black combat boots, an unbuttoned black shirt rolled up to his elbows (and what looked suspiciously like an absolutely see-through fishnet shirt underneath), and a stud belt… and apparently, a _gold_ armband (Bakura could tell when things were fake, and that didn't look like it. Whatever) He looked, in fact, like a dark, twisted version of Malik. Complete with piercings and make up.

Bakura had crossed a few words with Officer Honda before coming to meet the teen, and his suspicions had been confirmed. He was not going to have it easy; heck, the kid had spotted the cops from _afar_, and had run the hell away from his counseling session. Honda had talked to the counselor, and advised Bakura to have a word with him too. He was the only one that knew _something _about the kid, probably. In fact, the police could trace the kid because they knew he took those counseling sessions, otherwise, Bakura suspected, they'd have _never_ found him. He was as elusive as an eel. An _electric_ one.

"He's kind of… disturbing," a concerned voice behind Bakura said. Right, his landlord, he'd forgotten he'd tailed along.

"It's nice of you to say he's _only_ disturbing," Bakura heard Malik say.

He looked again at the teen- he remained all sprawled there, oblivious to the world, but his tongue flickered in and out of his lips in a weird way. The coroner lifted an eyebrow. Malik noticed it.

"Oh, he's playing with a piercing, I hate it when he does that," the ghost said, "He's full of piercings," he added, sounding harshly disapproving.

It was hard for the coroner to keep from answering the spirit. It was probably the only thing missing for his corridor-reputation: the fiendish Coroner talking to himself. No thank you.

"What do you make of him, Landlord?" Bakura asked, not entirely displeased with ignoring the blond teen.

Ryou shrugged, "His aura is weird, I don't know if he's a killer, but he's definitely something… out of the ordinary."

It was rather vague, but it worked about fine for the Coroner. Ryou and Malik remained at a distance until Bakura called for them, if he did, and meanwhile the coroner came up to the teen, and greeted him with a rather blunt "Hey you."

Bakura instantly disliked the way his pale lavender irises slowly turned to look at him, assessing him with a strange mixture of disregard and contempt. Old black eyeliner was smudged around his eyes, making his stare penetrative and predatory, and the painted blackness covered partially two tattooed marks that framed both his eyes. It was one of those tattoos that _hurt_ when you had them done. A golden loop pierced his left eyebrow, and his ears also bore countless marks of piercings, although at the moment he only wore a pair of gold danglers.

Seeing that he was not likely to elicit an answer (or a respectable sitting position) from his interlocutor, the Coroner grabbed a nearby armchair and brought it close to where the teen lay. That, at least, got the blond to sit up, crosslegged, and smile-smirk in amusement at the shaggy Coroner.

"Ya waitin' for the cops too?" he was asked, and though the teen's voice was not something one heard and let pass (it was rich and deep, and unexpected), he just spoke with this thick Cockney accent that was horribly leaning to what lowlives and cutthroats sounded like, Bakura knew very well,( and that probably also helped him understand the teen as he spoke.)

"I'm through with that, for now," Bakura said quietly, still pondering on what position he'd approach the kid from. However, whatever he did, he knew he was in for a though one.

The blond one smirked more pronouncedly. "Can't beat 'em, join 'em, eh?"

Bakura scoffed, he didn't like how that sounded, or what it meant, because the damned delinquent was perhaps slightly _right_.

"Your name is Malik, right?" he asked straight to the point, not caring what susceptibilities he harmed. He'd just had _his_ susceptibilities hurt, about two seconds ago.

The look he got in return was so snakish and venomous, and his anger was probably so intense, that Bakura sensed Ryou approach him a couple of steps, and Malik (the ghost… he was starting to sense the name issues himself alright) had just muttered something under his breath in another language. Probably Arabic. Like he cared.

"No name, thank you," the blond teenager said in a low voice. A dangerous voice.

"Whatever, then," Bakura said nonchalantly, "Do you have any idea why you're here?"

Dark Malik (as Bakura had decided to call him, if only for the sake of practicality) shrunk his shoulders. "If you don't, can't help ya, could be anythin'…"

"Your sister's dead," Bakura said directly. No preamble, no softening it, no nothing for that damned punk.

The blond lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise, and his little annoying mocking smirk dropped. "Didn't see _that_ one comin'," he commented.

"You seem _awfully_ upset, brother," Malik said ruefully, walking through Bakura with determination, to come to stand between the Coroner (who shivered slightly at having a ghost walk through him) and the blond punk.

Both Ryou and Bakura watched the exchange in silence and anxious expectation… it was probably the first time they shared a feeling of that kind.

Dark Malik's black rimmed eyes darted slowly upwards, and he only looked at the ghost of his brother for some seconds. Very _intense_ seconds. Then he looked away, a lopsided smile remaining on his lips, as if he were lost in reminiscence. And he said nothing, but neither did the Coroner nor his Landlord.

At last, Dark Malik spoke. "Took me by surprise," he voiced ambiguously. It was clear that he was not willing to acknowledge the ghost of his brother (although he _had_ somehow replied to him).

Seeing that it was _obvious _that he would not get any response from the teenage sociopath that was his brother, Malik said, shrugging, "They can see me, too."

"No shit," Dark Malik commented under his breath, looking anywhere but at the ghost that stood before him.

"No, we actually can, kid," Bakura stated, and Ryou, who'd come to stand behind him, nodded gravely.

Dark Malik's eyes narrowed at that: it was hard they were fucking with him just then. "No _way_…"

"More willing to cooperate?" Bakura taunted, but Dark Malik's eyes narrowed.

"I _never_ cooperate," he hissed.

Ryou looked at the Coroner. "You didn't really _tell_ him why you need his help, Bakura…" he commented wisely, and Dark Malik shot him a glance of mixed feelings, of which curiosity was probably the strongest.

Bakura shrugged. "I guess there was too many people around telling me how to do my job, and I got confused…"

Such words were probably self-destructive, and Ryou shot him a warning look he caught a glance of and coolly ignored.

But he obliged.

"See, kid," the Coroner began, through his teeth at first, and then, in a more normal fashion, "They found your sister down by the river," he paused. "I could show you some pictures…" his smirk was devilish as he said that (no one forced him to like the punk, and he didn't like him).

"Not too wise," Malik chided.

"Anyway," Bakura continued, "It was hell to find out who she was, we've no clues, no leads, nothing. And you running away doesn't make it any lighter."

Dark Malik's eyes narrowed dangerously. Bakura wasn't easily intimidated, but the teenager's look felt like a threat. He guessed he was just lucky that the voodoo doctor was on his side this time.

"I didn't kill Isis," Dark Malik said, in a low whisper, eyes downcast. He coughed what did sound like a heavy smoker's cough.

"Your record and your antics today would suggest otherwise," the Coroner retorted, seeing that, if cooperation was out of the question, maybe harmless extortion could do the trick.

Apparently, he was not mistaken.

"What do you _want?_" the blond punk asked, behaving like a cornered animal.

_Now that's more like it_, Bakura thought proudly_, _and said, waving his hand as if to dismiss importance from the matter, "Some background information, like a bed-time story. Ah, and where's your father, by the way?"

Dark Malik smirked in a twisted way. "It's better for my record if I don't know where that sick bastard is. There you go with your bed-time story, _Ba-ku-ra_…"

The Coroner abruptly stood up.

"That's it," he said, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it in record time, "This is not my bloody _job_," he took a long drag, and exhaled. Ryou looked at him with mild anxiety, Malik eyed him with an expression that read plainly, _I never had much faith in this guy_, and Dark Malik just kept smirking smugly and disgustingly like that, triumph written all over his tanned features.

"Officer Honda!" the Coroner called, and the policeman in question and two others came promptly.

"Any problem, sir?" they asked.

"This guy," he said, gesturing to Dark Malik, "He's got a thing or two to say. Inspector Kaiba will want to question him himself, I can bet my head on that one…"

"Very well, sir," Honda said, eyeing the punk who eyed him back like he could transmit the plague.

Bakura exhaled some smoke, not really giving two shits about the no-smoking sign that adorned a couple of walls. "I'll talk to him again tomorrow morning," and now, he was talking to the officer but looking solely at the object of his displeasure, "He'll be here alright, and damn me if he doesn't fulfill his 24 hours in custody."

"The HELL-?" he heard Dark Malik yell at him before officer Honda, aided by another cop, wrestled him into compliance, and soon enough the pale-skinned Coroner was walking out of the front door of the building out to the always grey streets, his landlord and the ghost coming out soon after, and everybody looked uneasy, except for Bakura, who looked royally pissed.

"Most of the things you said, you needn't," Ryou commented, but Bakura just scoffed.

"You're not feeling _bad_ for that freak, are you, Landlord?"

But Ryou felt that it sufficed with what he had already said, and he chose to say no more. It was already clear to his tenant how he disapproved of the way he'd treated the teenager.

Malik hovered around the voodoo witch for a while, apparently thoughtful. "He was terribly uneasy," he lamented, "And what now? He's going to be locked up the rest of the afternoon _and_ tomorrow?" He shot a highly disapproving glare at the Coroner. "I'm wondering now what made me think you could be of any help," he spat ruefully.

Bakura lit another cigarette with the one that he was finishing and closed his eyes- he could feel the headache all right, hammering against the insides of his head with vice. "Look _both_ of you," he began, "Did any of you see him remotely _interested_ about _anything_?"

The fact that he got no answer did not prove anything, but he continued. "He didn't see me as a threat, and he didn't see you like allies. But that can change. Now Kaiba's going to go inspector bitch on his ass, and tomorrow, once he's had time to _reason_, if he ever does, then we'll talk to him."

Bakura paused.

"Not me," he added, thoughtful. "I know his kind," he explained with a ruthful smirk, "He thinks I'm his _equal_…"

He turned to Ryou.

"Tomorrow morning, what do you say, we split up. I'll go see this dark Malik's counselor, and you talk to him… see if he finds you more worthy of respect."

Ryou sensed all that was implicit in that proposal: the impotence, the trust, the challenge.

"Very well," he agreed with one of his knightly smiles, "That may work... Are you pet-naming him already?"

Bakura scowled outwardly at such an accusation, but inwardly, he sighed in relief. Somehow, dealing with Dark Malik strained him more than it should. Whatever.

Suddenly, he noticed something.

"Hey, where's Malik?"

The landlord shrunk his shoulders. "He's probably with his brother. If you got him locked up for an entire day, I'm sure they'll have plenty of time to talk undisturbed."

"Ugh. Whatever suits him," Bakura said, looking up at the sky and then at the time.

"And what are you going to do now?" Ryou asked him.

"Paperwork."

A quiet laugh. Unexpectedly, his landlord's laughing at him did not irritate him as it should have, but had him crooking up something that looked like a halfway smile. "Right," the younger man said, "I'll see you around later, then. I'll go take a look at Dr. Atem's chips of ink… see if anyone on the _other side_ can help me."

The coroner waved carelessly over his shoulder as his landlord left and thankfully, thankfully he'd his back to him and he could not see his face, because if there'd ever been a smile there, it'd frozen and dropped at the mention of the… _other side_.

_Paperwork… never so sweet before_, Bakura thought grimly, walking again into the New Scotland Yard.

.

.

.

A soft rapping on his door told Bakura that his Landlord stood outside. What took him by surprise this time wasn't the knocking itself, but the thought that he was starting to recognize the way the landlord knocked.

"You returned really late tonight," Ryou commented, leaning against the doorframe, once the Coroner opened the door.

Bakura shrugged. "Well, shit happens."

"I thought you would, you know," he commented, looking at his black-rimmed nails, "so I made some extra pasta. I thought you could use some."

Bakura was about to decline the weird offer, but then Malik materialized behind Ryou, and shot him a warning look of sorts.

"Funny," the ghost said, "for two seconds I thought you were _about_ to say no." He topped the comment with a sarcastic smirk.

_I thought something along the lines too_, Bakura thought-complained miserably, and, closing the door behind him, followed Ryou.

The apartment building was a three-stories building, and the Landlord lived in the largest apartment at ground level. It was darker than necessary, so Bakura could not really get to know what the place really looked like, but he could guess that it was a luminous, breezy place during the day. Even with every blind closed, the outside wind leaked into the room and created a strange kind of air current.

The scent of the air there was also strange, like a concentration of dried herbs, resin and seawater.

Ryou turned on the light, one oddly shaped hanging lamp in the middle of the room, that projected a yellowish light that made everything look otherwordly tropical and ancient, especially the wooden carved masks, charms and intricate paintings that adorned the walls. Bakura was beyond surprise at this point, but, this did not prevent him from feeling very queasy.

As if all the eyes of the Tiki and Mayan masks followed him when he moved.

_That's idiocy_, he chided_, you're overworked. Get over it._ He wisely ignored the little voice at the back of his head that softly nudged him with these words: _voodoo… voodoo… _

"Please, take a seat, Bakura," his Landlord offered, and whisked into another room (presumably the kitchen), and came out not long after, with a steaming dish of pasta that smelled _really_ good, especially taking into account that the Coroner had had half a sandwich for lunch (he'd gotten only as far as the half of the sandwich when he was called back to work… he'd not found it tasty anyway.)

He ate in silence. Ryou's cooking was too good to let it go cold.

_When was the last time I had anything this good?,_ he asked himself, but Ryou's voice cut his musings.

"What _exactly_ does a Coroner do, Bakura?" the younger man asked, looking like he really wanted to know the answer.

The Coroner sighed. "Investigate deaths… Unusual, deaths." That was clearly not enough information, so he cleared his throat, drank some water from a wooden glass Ryou's also brought, and expanded: "When the cause of death is unknown, that's where they call me. Weird, sudden, violent deaths… and I'm supposed to investigate and find out why the person died. Only facts."

Malik had decided to listen to the Coroner's 'story', and he was floating behind Ryou, listening as intently as the Landlord as Bakura continued.

"Ideally, I hold court to check all the evidence. Then I pronounce the person dead, and write'em down in the registrar."

The ghost was not a quiet listener like the voodoo doctor, though. He arched his eyebrows and asked, "What for?"

Bakura shrugged. "So they're officially dead. If the evidence is not enough I call witnesses. But," he added, "since Kaiba's lurking around Scotland Yard, I hardly hold courts any longer. We have worked like we work now before, but this is the first time he actually gets me to do _his_ work, the damned prick."

"I'm not following," Malik said, "What's the deal, you said you can call witnesses…". For a ghost, he was a bit too short-tempered for Bakura's taste. Ryou just remained immersed in what they all assumed was an in-depth character study of his tenant.

"_Call them to court_, not knock on their bloody doors…" then, the Coroner explained that Kaiba preferred to oversee himself any death that was potentially the result of criminal activity, which left Bakura with actually few deaths to check for himself (and, he could also delegate that on Coroner's Officers…)… and TONS of paperwork.

Bakura had not agreed too keenly on that until he realized that more paperwork equated less human contact. And he'd not been as hostile to the chief inspector's _programme_ afterwards.

There did arise, now and again, cases like the case of Isis Ishtar; where Bakura had to come out of the shadows and, if circumstances allowed, hear witnesses, hold court. He'd never been made to personally investigate a case before, though. He had to give it to Seth accursed Kaiba to make life harder to live.

When Bakura had finished talking, silence fell again, and Ryou left to make some tea. Malik vanished after him, leaving the Coroner alone with the echo of his words.

What a situation he'd gotten himself into, bonding with his Landlord, the only individual on Planet Earth that managed both to creep the hell out of him, and draw him in like a moth to a lightbulb.

_Draw me in_… he shuddered. Well, no good ever came out of denying stuff…

Ryou came back with a tray- two cups, a teapot. While he poured the tea, Bakura asked him:

"I should also be entitled to a question… right?"

Ryou smiled enigmatically, and passed him a cup. He sipped it. It was delicious.

"That story you told Dr. Atem was not true, was it?" Bakura asked, dead serious.

His landlord blinked. "Story?"

"About how you got that tattoo of the voodoo… thing."

"Oh, that story," Ryou said, as if he'd forgotten all about it, "No, it was not true."

It was a simple answer and Bakura believed him.

"I would've been just too coincidental that it looks exactly like this ring you gave to me," Bakura said, and he recalled the tattoo of the veve, the thin green lines on pale whitish skin. How could he not recall it? _Forget_ it? It was a bidimensional replica of the Ring, with its five danglers pointed in their five respective directions.

Ryou smiled (meekly?) and looked at the man across the table. "I'll tell you the true story, if you want, Bakura."

The Coroner nodded and saw Malik shift to a position where he could see Ryou's face. Maybe the ghost did not know the full story either.

"I was young, but I immediately noticed the power of the Ring. I investigated. I learnt how to control it, and, years later, I went to the Caribbean. It made sense, since that was where I'd gotten it in the first place," Ryou told, "I learnt of voodoo and magic seals, and eventually I had a voodoo doctor perform this spell on me, to seal forever the magic of this Ring... Became a voodoo doctor myself…" He smiled to himself, as if he were remembering something, then he added, as an afterthought, "But we don't call ourselves doctors, more rather, _priests_. That's what houngans are. Voodoo priests that do white magic."

The Landlord smiled yet again, a different kind of smile, a rather creepy one. "Though, you know, one also picks up a couple of other kinds spells along the way too…"

Bakura blinked, sipped his tea, "Like the zombie?" (Everything that was not normal was becoming _precisely_ normal)

Ryou grinned, though the Coroner wasn't sure the younger man should have, "Like the zombie," he confirmed.

"Well," the coroner said, standing up, "Thank you, Landlord…" he fell short of something nice to say, but Ryou did not mind it.

"Don't worry," the younger man said gently, "Fell free to come over when you like, Bakura."

Bakura shrugged, though not too impolitely. He wasn't sure what to make of all that sudden friendliness, so he wisely decided he'd change topics. He _had_ to, too:

"So, Landlord, you'll grace that gutless punk tomorrow with your presence?"

The voodoo doctor ghosted up a smile and nodded, but, in the background, Malik growled. "Tone it down," the spirit muttered, and he sounded quite menacing.

"Never meant to offend, _Malik_," Bakura said coolly, not sounding like he meant it at all.

"Never meant to try either, eh?" The blond spirit tsk-ed, "For someone who should always be dealing with people, you suck at that."

"You, and your brother, hardly qualify as _people,_" the Coroner retorted, and, before Malik had time to think of any comeback, he added, "Besides, it's all come so far because _you_ aren't cooperating at all." (he'd kill, KILL for a smoke at that point)

The ghost's face went blank only shortly before it became enraged, "What do you _mean?_"

"Why can't _you_ just bloody tell us where your ostrich of a father's burying his head?" Bakura asked between smooth and seething, "It'd save your brother a lot of… _distress_… Also, he's our first suspect as long as your father doesn't come say hi. The ghost of your sister will be kinda sad, hum?"

Ryou shot him a warning glance at that. He never interfered when Malik and Bakura talked, but mistreating spirits that had moved on was just unwise. Thus the look, which Bakura half-interpreted, and made a mental note not to go there again.

Malik looked no longer angry, but forlorn. "Can't meddle," the ghost said nonchalantly, "For the laws of this life and the next, it's bad already that I'm here. I can't meddle in your affairs. Can't change the course of any event."

Bakura fished in his mind for a piece of information that lingered around since he'd learnt it. "You already did," the Coroner said, "You got your damned menace of a brother sent to a mental institution."

"And so far it has been Hell and back and again for me, damn you," Malik retorted with some violence.

"Leave it there," the even voice of the Landlord said, surfacing unexpectedly, "It's late already."

Bakura pinched his brow. "Alright. Tomorrow morning, we meet by the main door at 7 am- Can you make it, Landlord?"

"I _will_ do the sacrifice," Ryou said, not too serious. "Good night, Bakura."

.

.

.

"Officer Honda, this is…"

"Rhydwyn Ysbryd," the Landlord supplied gently, seeing that the Coroner would not remember his name even if the entire voodoo pantheon was hexing him.

"… he's a… specialist in human behavior, and he's here to ask our _prisoner_ a couple of questions, on my behalf," the Coroner explained.

"Prisoner?" Honda chuckled, "I'd wish he were… Has Mr… has he got any ID?"

Ryou took a couple of ID cards from a pouch of Andean weaving and handed them to Honda, who barely read them before handing them back, from which Ryou deduced the officer trusted the Coroner.

"Officer, can you come with me while Mr. Ysbryd talks to that punk?" Bakura asked, as he signed some papers that gave his consent as regards Ryou questioning Dark Malik.

Honda shook his head. "I've got to stay here, sir, in case Ishtar tries anything funny. But officer Gardner is available. Where are you going, sir?"

The Coroner answered with a sly counter-question. "You did say yesterday that I ought to talk to Ishtar's counselor, right?"

.

.

.

A warm hand on his shoulder stirred Dark Malik awake.

"Damn, I hate to wake up in jail," he muttered, his voice raspy.

Ryou would have smiled in reassurance, but the smile froze halfway in his throat as he took in the teenager's appearance. Up close, Dark Malik looked terrible.

Bags under his eyes so dark they looked black, stubble on his chin, his gravity-defying blond Mohawk messy and disordered. His clothes were all crumpled.

And his eyes. Feral and raw.

Ryou sighed, against all predictions of the way he thought he'd react. He sighed, and went outside to the corridor where Honda was humming something as he texted someone.

"All good?" he asked when he saw Ryou appear, "Not giving up this soon, right?"

"Not at all," the voodoo doctor said, "I was just wondering where I could get us some coffee."

Officer Honda blinked in surprise. "I'll get you some," he offered, "Not like I've something better to do than watch over your health. Just wait me out here, just in case."

Ryou thanked him with his usual gentle demeanour and leaned against the wall.

Pale lavender eyes thickly rimmed with smudged black eyeliner followed Ryou like a predator's as the pale man came into the room some minutes later, carrying two smoking mugs of coffee.

The punk silently took the one Ryou handed him, and studied him all the while with his too calculating eyes that Ryou could not bring himself to dislike. The teenager had the aura of those with spiritual power, and Ryou, from what he knew and what he could guess, could tell that it had not been something he had borne with peace. He couldn't not pity the lanky teenager perched on the chair like a bird of pray.

Nothing more, nothing less than pity him.

"You ain't no cop, can't fool me about that," Dark Malik commented with a shrug, as he, strangely enough, drank the coffee.

"You're right, I'm not," Ryou said gently, "I'm more of a… special consultant. Didn't you eat anything yesterday?"

Dark Malik shrugged.

_I knew it_, Ryou told himself_, I'm starting to feel grandmotherly. I should stop feeding people._

"I wouldn't either if I was in jail, I guess.."

The dark skinned teenager eyed him in an interesting way, as if he were assessing Ryou, trying to sketch out a personality. While doing so, his mouth opened and closed as he played with the piercing in his tongue.

"Who cares about jail," he eventually said, "I've been in and out of 'em all my life."

"Why?" asked Ryou, genuinely curious about the answer Dark Malik would give him. It was as if both were studying the other, trying to get a likeness to handle at will; they both knew it- with understanding came power.

"I _thrive_ in the fear of others," he said, and he would have sounded dreamish if Ryou'd not known better, and the young man could tell sarcasm dripping from every single word.

Ryou counter-attacked, to call it some way. "And you make a living out of it too, or am I wrong?"

A rather sinister smirk confirmed it.

"... what do you live for?", the Landlord asked quietly, taking his interlocutor by surprise for some seconds.

"Me?" Dark Malik repeated, "Whyever would you ask that. But, to humour you, I've not got any purpose or anything. Survive. Make people miserable."

"Why'd you say that? You can't be older than 20," Ryou reasoned with a frown. He was not too sure now where the conversation was going.

"… 18. Or 19. Never paid much attention; age doesn't save your life."

"When I was _your_ age," Ryou began, very aware that he sounded patronizing, but like he cared, "I was studying Botany in Buenos Aires, you know… it was very cheap, and good."

Dark Malik lifted an eyebrow. The conversation was so side-tracked that he didn't know either what the deal was anymore. He'd almost forgotten he was in jail... "Right," he said, "you look like a freaking cheap version of Poisonous Ivy."

"Thank you," the landlord said humbly, "See, my father worked there at the moment, we went almost around the world together before he died. What do _you_ know about your father?"

Now the conversation was on its original track again, Dark Malik could smell it a mile off.

He also perceived it was in his best interest not to mess with the gentle-looking young man in front of him, but that was a hunch he chose to ignore when he said "I don't give a crap about your daddy, and bitch your pointy nose out my _life_-"

"…And let me show you what I learned, travelling around the world," Ryou said calmly, (apparently off-track again? Dark Malik was mazed...) and with a little piece of chalk drew something on the floor of the cell, and placed on it some dried leafy twigs he took out of his pocket, then he prickled his finger and let a drop of blood (or two? Or three?) fall onto it, and muttered something…

…then the room was spinning and a weird, eerie light was leaking out of that circle, that glowed green like a light under water, then, then that light was crawling up the walls and their legs like a fog or an army of ghost spiders, filling it all with a deep smell of jungle undergrowth, and Dark Malik could just almost hear it _all_, the monkeys, the pythons, the jaguars and the wind in the upper canopies of a tropical rainforest… He stood there in the middle of the dark woods, engulfed in noises of things _alive_, and scents foreign and intimidating, and not only that, it was all spinning, and then the silences behind the noises were void and intimidating, and attractive, like heroin, and then, when it all spun and sang and thundered and hushed, he heard the drums… The ritual drums that persecuted him as he started to run, run like mad, aimlessly trying to dodge the great wise trees that fell behind him as the illusion collapsed, and he fell to the ground on his knees, panting, heaving like he had just had a vision of Hell and the world beyond its gates, and it was so _warm_, and _damp_, and it all smelled like rotten fruit and shipwrecks…

Until, for the second time that day, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

Then the world was still unfocused and wild and tropical, but now, now he didn't feel his insides fighting to tear themselves apart.

He only felt weary and stunned.

"What was _that_…?" he asked, bewildered and terrified.

Ryou's face betrayed no emotion. "We can talk like human beings, or we can do things my way," he said quietly, "I think you're smart enough to know that, since your sister is dead and there are no suspects, _you_ are the main suspect."

Dark Malik, be it either because he was still shocked from the voodoo spell, or because he was acquiescing, stayed quiet.

"It may look better for you if we find your father. So why don't you want to cooperate?" Ryou asked with a frown, looking very human and quasi-vulnerable again, absolutely _not_ as if he'd just pulled an infernal voodoo paraphernalia on the punk teenager.

Dark Malik swallowed hard, and allowed himself to cough his heavy smoker's cough. He also allowed himself some time to ponder on his options. Perhaps the sorcerous young man was right, and his best option was to cooperate.

However, there was a little teeny-weeny point to take into consideration: he couldn't cooperate much, even if he _wanted_ to.

"I don't _know_ where that prissy bastard is," Dark Malik said low with hatred, under his breath. "He prays every night before going to bed that I never find him," he cackled.

Ryou quirked an eyebrow.

Dark Malik read it in his eyes- the voodoo doctor was telling him, _expand_. Very well; he would. With a small cackle that rang low and slightly deranged, he easily shrugged his black open shirt off, and rolled up the fishnet shirt to expose his back to Ryou.

"See those scars?" he asked.

"What _is_ that?" Ryou asked under his breath, squinting his eyes as if that would allow him to take in with more ease the map of symbols and hieroglyphs that took up the most of Dark Malik's back. His voice clearly showed a preoccupation he didn't try to hide.

"You _know_ he got a restraining order against me, right?" Dark Malik asked contemptuously, "Square-edged information for square-headed cops, like always..." he commented. "Wanna know why?"

The landlord nodded.

"I saw Malik's ghost, every day, we talked, ya know? Like Isis, she too. But that bastard had it with _me_..." He paused to laugh at a passing memory, and Ryou let him do. The landlord had the feeling that he was about to learn something abnormal to say the least.

And he was not mistaken.

"Before the damned prick had me locked in that loony bin, he tried a homemade-remedy or two. And this was one," Dark Malik spat on the ground, "One of his damned worthless spells. He believed it was ancestral knowledge to keep evil spirits away. Ancestral knowledge my ass. He took a fucking kitchen knife, heated it in the stove, and..."

"_Enough_!" cried Ryou, "That's enough," he said, shivering despite himself. For all his voodoo magic, that was a mental image he could spare.

"Anyway, he must have lost a bit of his faith on spells when I swore over Malik's grave that I'd carve him some _ancestral knowledge_ on his goddamned _face_…" Dark Malik stifled a laugh, apparently, he thought the deal to be rather amusing (and Ryou knew by now that he was not _completely_ mentally stable. But he didn't seem completely insane either).

"Then he sent me away, and it was all very tragic, until I got myself out, and then, it was _more_ tragic. And he got the infamous restraining order…" Dark Malik smirked. "Tell it to your friend the Coroner. It makes a nice bedtime story, just like he wanted…"

Ryou suddenly felt like sulking. But he didn't, and as he distantly observed Dark Malik get his clothes back on, a thought came to mind.

"Did your father know Coptic?" he asked, and the punk looked up at him.

"The hell is that?"

Ryou sighed. "Roughly, it's ancient Egyptian written in Greek characters."

Dark Malik scratched the back of his hair, and put a couple of strands in order in his Mohawk a rather amusing sight). "'May have, dunno… if it's good for freaking wretched _spells_, he sure did," he shrugged, "Isis knew, probably. She liked that stuff, and she played along with the old bat and wriggled 'knowledge' out of 'im. And what with that? She's dead. Shows how much _that_ worked."

The voodoo doctor hummed. "I see…" he murmured, "… well, that's… interesting…"

"I've a question for you now, princess," Dark Malik said, sharkish again, "What was _that_?" His eyes narrowed, "I've been a good kid and told all ya wanted, so say, what did you _do_? The jungle, drums, all your bloody juju, what's the deal?"

Fear. Ryou could read it somewhere behind Dark Malik's nonchalant words.

"I'm a voodoo priest, a houngan," Ryou said, short and sweet, and Dark Malik wouldn't have believed it hadn't he seen it before. Life was dealing him a couple of damned unexpected blows.

"How're you working with that wet dog of a Coroner?"

Ryou stood up. "I'll tell you more later. Look, you'll be in here till 3.30 pm today. They'll release you on police bail, they told me. Where will you go? You've _nowhere_ to go, have you?"

Dark Malik grimaced in silence.

The landlord smiled slowly. "I've been thinking something…"

.

.

.

While this happened in the New Scotland Yard, Bakura was parking in front of an ugly, grey concrete building, smeared with graffiti and smog, in the worst part of the outskirts of London, a couple of blocks away from the river.

The air was thick and foul.

No sooner had he and Officer Gardner gotten off the car, that a very curious individual came out of the building to greet them. He was dressed in black and leather and studs and buckles, fingerless gloves on his hands and a couple of piercings on each ear; and, to complete the outfit, he wore his hair in a mohawkish fashion that put Dark Malik to shame- the star-shaped hairdo was dyed black and magenta and blond, and looked _so _avant-garde. But, I say very curious because he looked in his thirties already. His face was, however, not aged, not unpleasant, and his expression was gentle and even-tempered.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice young and cheerful, "I'm Yugi Matthews, I work as a counselor here..." He shook Bakura's hand, who introduced himself as the Coroner investigating the death of Isis Ishtar.

"Would you come in, please? It's not the best part of town to be talking on the threshold," Yugi invited, flashing a dazzling smile, at Officer Gardner, in particular, who flushed slightly in response. Bakura growled inwardly. He had a magnet for those things, hadn't he?

At the entrance of the building, a notice read "RIVERSIDE YOUTH CENTRE", and while Yugi led them to his office, he explained to them that the center fostered programs that provided free counseling, group therapies and activities, and basic medical aid for troubled teens in the area.

"Yes, I talked to Officer… Honda, that was his name, right?" Yugi said, once he had made sure Bakura and Officer Gardner were seated and comfortable, and he'd offered tea that Officer Gardner had accepted and Bakura hadn't.

Bakura nodded gravely. "Exactly, he told me you might have a thing or two to say about Malik Ishtar…"

Yugi frowned, and realization dawned on Bakura, as if he'd just placed the piece of a puzzle, although it was a small thing.

"Or Tomb Keeper, maybe that sounds more familiar? He was the victim's brother, you see."

Yugi oh-ed. "Right… him. Malik Ishtar is his name, then?" He shook his head with a sad smile. "It sounds so exotic," he commented, as if that meant a lot to either of his listeners. It didn't.

"He's under custody now," Bakura informed, "Mind if I smoke?"

"I'd really rather you didn't," answered Yugi, "Everyone here smokes like death…" he said apologetically, and Bakura narrowed his eyes in displeasure, but did as told (a rare feat).

The Coroner looked at the odd-looking counselor. "You don't seem surprised he is in jail."

Yugi shrugged, and side-glanced at Officer Gardner, who was following the conversation with interest but didn't say anything.

"_You'll_ be surprised how fast he gets _out_," the counselor commented.

Alarmed, Officer Gardner looked at Yugi. "Why'd you say that, sir?" she asked.

"He just _does_. I don't know much about the police and the law, but… did you ever read Batman?"

The question elicited a weird stare from the Coroner and a faint giggle from the young policewoman.

"Well, you know, the Joker for example, they caught him and threw him into prison, and the next day, he was out again being a headache. So's… you said his name is Malik? God, it's weird that he has a name, it kind of brings him closer to sanity. …"

"Right, so we've our hands on a criminal prodigy," Bakura mused, which led him to ask, "Why does he even bother coming here then? If he's so _grand_ the Met can't handle him?"

Yugi sighed. "He had this diagnose once… he's held to it, I believe it's a kind of mockery to our system…" Seeing Officer Gardner's look of utter loss, he explained, "He only comes because it'd lessen any charges against him if he got caught. If he proves he's been coming, he'll always get a lighter sentence... But he's never caught," he finished.

"Mm-hmm," Bakura said distantly, his mind clearly somewhere else. Where his mind was, he evinced in his following (blunt) question.

"What do you know about his family?"

Yugi stroke his chin and thought. "… all I know (and bear in mind that that's what _he_ told me), is that they put him away in a mental institution, and when he ran away, his _father_ got a restraining order against him."

Bakura pinched his brow. "You don't seem to know much about him…"

The counselor smiled slowly. "I've a file, but, as you see, I didn't touch it. I didn't even read his name. I connect better with my patients if they see me as someone who really wants to help them, rather than a government flunky." He said that last part bitterly, and Bakura felt the man was being honest with him. Shrinks, whatever.

"Right… So, has he killed before?" He asked with a sly, mellow smirk.

"What do you mean, _before_?" Yugi lifted an eyebrow, "I don't know, but it was not too unwise of his father to do it. Get that order, I mean."

"Your diagnose of Ishtar mustn't be too flowery," Bakura commented snidely, "again, it doesn't surprise me. That punk's a pain…"

Officer Gardner flushed at hearing the Coroner (someone with such a dignified charge!) speak like that.

"He's entitled to a lawyer," the Coroner dropped, seeing what the counselor would say to that.

"He won't want one," Yugi stated fast, shaking his head, "I wouldn't either if I were him."

_Interesting_, Bakura thought, and he asked; "Why not?"

"Well, that's doctor-patient kind of confidential," Yugi replied smooth, and Bakura said, equally smoothly,

"It'd get him _in_ jail rather than _out_ of it, right?"

Yugi sighed. "I'm his counselor, and I logically wish him the best, but sometimes I think it'd be better for him and all of us if he really spent some time in prison… "

Bakura caught himself agreeing with the multicolor-haired counselor.

"By the way," Yugi said, "Now that you have him under custody, have him see a doctor."

Bakura quirked an eyebrow. "Do I look like a nurse, Mr. Matthews?"

Yugi waved the remark off with his hand, and looked at him serious: "I thought he coughed so bad because he smokes _insanely_, but I've the feeling that there's something else."

He looked at Officer Gardner. "You are the law- it won't cost you much."

The Coroner smirked slyly. "I know a forensic pathologist…" he trailed off, _loving_ the way Yugi shuddered.

"Come on, officer," Bakura said, "We're done for today." He took a card with a number from the pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Yugi.

"Here's where you can call if you happen upon anything relevant to this investigation, Mr. Matthews," he said, "We're especially interested in talking to the father, if the man is still around."

Yugi nodded with conviction. "If I learn anything I'll let you guys know."

"Thank-you for your time, Mr. Matthews," Officer Gardner said before they left, and Yugi winked at her and made her flush again, and when she and Bakura had left, he whispered, "You can call me Yugi, officer…"

.

.

.

Officer Gardner was very silent as Bakura drove back to the HQs of the Met, and she looked out of the window at the passing cityscape lost in thought.

Equally lost in thought, the Coroner was wondering somberly what would await him when he saw his Landlord again.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Characters:<strong>

*** Yugi Matthews: Adolescent psychologist = counselor, in his thirties. Works at a local clinic and provides free attention to teens in critical situations. **

**Author's Note:**

According to the official website of the Met, "_You can't be kept at a police station for more than 24 hours without being charged, although this can be extended to 36 hours with the authority of a police superintendent, and for up to 96 hours with the authority of a magistrate._

_If there's not enough evidence to charge you, you can be released on police bail. You don't have to pay to be released on police bail, but you'll have to return to the station for further questioning when asked_"

**.**

First things first, **MERRY CHRISTMAS!** This (very long) chapter is my Christmas present for all of you :) Also, my birthday was yesterday, so... it's kind of also a birthday present for myself too... 8500+ words... woooo it's long!

Second things second... I'm so sorry about the very late update. But I had a severe case of writer's block, and also, this chapter has a LOT of dialogues, and I always take ages to write dialogues. So forgive me.

There isn't really much to explain this chapter, but, as usual, feel free to ask me anything. Your wishes are my commands :) Oh, and a question! How are you finding the character of Dark Malik? He's hard to write... how far from the canon version am I straying?

**_To my dear reviewers!:_**

**RiverTear**: Dear! Thanks for the suggestion- I fixed the last chapter, wrote an Edit and thanked you properly, did you see? I'm glad you appreciate the research! I find it easier to write the story when I do research... I had to look up a lot about counseling for this one, although little reference is made... Oh, well, so's life! Merry Christmas!

**mari marz**: I'm glad you find I'm getting their personalities right! (and sexy houngan? yesh please! there's a link to some artwork down there if you want to see how I imagine him 3) What do you think of Yami Malik?

**Hana-Liatris**: Ryou? Probably he'll also be buying Bakura a goldfish and an aquarium as soon as he catches him off-guard. And we know he'll name the fish Flavio ;)

**Darth Mudkip** (I love your username xD): Glad your interest has been perked! How did you find this chapter? Up to expectations? (please say yes ;) hahaha)

.

.

**ARTWORK**

I did some, to illustrate some scenes and characters of this chapter:

* Dark Malik and his mohawk:http : /bluestwaves .deviantart .com /art/i-gots-your-book-on-obeah-274464439?q=gallery%3Abluestwaves&qo=1

* Ryou stirring Dark Malik awake: http : /bluestwaves .deviantart .com /art/rise-and-shine-274222208?q=gallery%3Abluestwaves&qo=3

* "The craziest characters in Coroner's Court": a set of sketches of Isis Ishtar, Kisara Bluewhite, Dark Malik and Rhydwyn "Ryou" Ysbryd: http : / bluestwaves .deviantart .com/#/d4jv1ql

.

**_Next chapter_**: Someone reach the end of his tether, and the search for a missing person continues. And someone goes to the doctor.


	9. Chapter 9

_Saturday from mid-day to mid-night._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

"I didn't learn much from the counselor," Bakura said with a scowl.

He and Ryou and a transparent Malik sat in the lounge-like space at the entrance of the bureau. The day had dawned bright, but it was already midday, and a heavy coat of grey clouds had plunged the city back into its daily dimness.

"How was your luck, Landlord?"

Ryou smiled to himself, and Malik rested his chin on his palm, and spoke for the light- haired voodoo doctor. "He got my brother to talk alright," the ghost said bittersweetly, "And I wonder if it's just me that's outdated… You two make a weird but effective team. Whatever. I got ourselves into this…"

Bakura's eyes were closed while he listened to Malik's rambling, and when the spirit was done, he lifted an eyelid lazily to look at his landlord. "Whatever he's talking of," he muttered, and then asked, "What did he tell you?"

"A lot of things, but he doesn't know where Mr. Ishtar is," Ryou said, shaking his head.

Silence fell on both men, and the spirit.

Bakura cleared his throat. He wasn't liking what he was about to say, but he wasn't joking when he'd spoken of a forensic pathologist, and Officer Gardner had gotten ahead of him and already called Dr. Bluewhite. (Gardner was too _good_ a woman, and Bakura usually resented working with her, but as of late she'd been the only officer available to go on 'field trips', and she was slowly beginning to understand how the Coroner worked. Bakura _did not like that_…)

"The counselor said that punk needed a doctor. Officer Gardner's taking him."

Ryou reacted in surprise, but he couldn't say anything before Malik did, he'd opened his eyes wide when he'd heard the word _doctor_, and quasi-screeched,

"You're not letting him off _alone_, right?"

Bakura zeroed, oddly enough.

"He didn't say _that_, Malik," Ryou said soothingly (and very diplomatically), "And I was about to suggest we went with him too. Unless you have something better to do, Bakura?"

"Follow a new lead, perhaps?" Malik added poisonously.

"We'll go, naturally," the Coroner said vacantly, an ominous phrase like _alea jacta est_ dancing around in his brain, "Until I too learn voodoo magic, we'll go…"

Ryou smiled like a pleased puppy (a damned _extorting_ one…), Bakura swallowed bitterly a sigh that would betray his powerlessness, and Malik crossed his arms over his chest in a child-like manner.

"Before we leave," the Coroner said between his teeth, "I've to go fetch my gun, cuffs, and pepper-spray."

Ryou blinked in some sort of twisted cluelessness. "What for? I always carry chalk, feathers and herbs in my pouch…"

Bakura shuddered.

.

.

.

The coroner drove.

In the backseat, separated by bars and a bulletproof panel, sat a properly handcuffed Dark Malik, a very silent ghost, and Ryou.

"Will your friend be okay?" Officer Gardner, in the passenger seat, asked, "He's a civilian…"

Bakura could always tell when she was doubting his sanity.

"_Believe me,_" he answered, "Me and you both wouldn't be _safer_ than that guy."

The Forensic Services Department was not too far from the HQs of the Met, but Bakura judged it necessary (especially taking into consideration Malik's words)… if they wanted to keep their main suspect, he needed to be under constant surveillance.

_Constant surveillance_, the Coroner thought sullenly, _and just how_. His mind span trying to figure out a way to have him close at hand, for when they later needed him, but the teen was wretched and unwilling to cooperate, and would just slip away from their grasp, and _the case would never end_.

He needed something stronger than a cigarette, with urgency, he reckoned. Thankfully it was Saturday.

With Ryou walking beside him, Dark Malik looked the ultimate expression of indifference as they went into the (white) building, where Bakura led them through a network of ample corridors. In many ways, the place smelled and felt _worse_ than a hospital, and Dark Malik, who was never afraid of anything (at least, he liked to think so, although he _had_ been proved wrong that very morning), felt not afraid, but uneasy. He remembered hospitals, and the worst part was always the thousands of goddamned _questions_ they asked. The sheer memory caused him violence, the need to just make everyone shut up forever.

Pain was something he never cared much about; but having people try to make him lose his footing… _that_ would have made him a killer, any day.

Officer Gardner's low hills broke off the illusion of feet shuffling to the gallows, and they four stopped before another white door; Bakura knocking rather unconsideredly to have a sickly pale woman open the door and beam (why would anyone do that?) at the dark bags under the Coroner's eyes and his sloppy ponytail, and then he wouldn't even introduce them… As if she already _knew_.

_This paranoia is new_, Dark Malik thought somewhere between irritated, and amused, at himself; just when had he become so _laissez faire_? Ryou's hand casually came to rest on his shoulder; but rather than comforting, it felt like the touch of a white death raven. His body, weary with bad sleep and undernourishment, decided to shiver in response to the touch, and the voodoo doctor _squeezed_ his shoulder affectionately, and it felt all but reassuring.

He may have just been walking to the gallows, Dark Malik thought.

"Here you have him, Kisara," Bakura said somewhere in the backdrop;

"He looked way less cute in my mind," the pale doctor joked in return;

… but it all came like an echo to him because he was lost in sensations that did not please him, and he just looked at them with vacant eyes.

"Landlord," said the Coroner privately, and it was funny, because he spoke to him almost as if he talked to a child, "Much as I not-like Ishtar, stop… _affecting_, him."

Interesting word, _affecting_. Two people in the scene surely had not _caught_ that one, Dark Malik distantly reasoned, and his reasoning led him somewhere else. If the Coroner empathized with him, then may be he knew first hand how it felt? The… _Landlord_'s… effect. Whatever the hell of a juju he was right then pulling at him…

A new hand on his other shoulder stirred him back to a state of consciousness more respectable, with it came a severe headache, raw throat, hunger, and a scowl. The Coroner locked eyes with him for a second, looked at the voodoo doctor, removed his hand, and was removed from the scene as well. As if he'd never been there, and he was talking to Kisara and Officer Gardner like _nothing had happened_.

Ryou smiled and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he addressed Dark Malik, "I was not paying attention… I'll go get you something to eat."

Dark Malik was mystified to the core of his self- that young man, ghosting him and swallowing him into that strange aura, and then growing concerned enough to read him like a book; and get him _food_… He watched him leave down the corridor with eyes quasi-transfixed; and, to top it all, he realized he was the _only one_ but for the Coroner who had taken notice of their brief exchange, so it must have happened in milliseconds.

With vague interest, he saw the silent ghost of his brother trail after the white-haired voodoo doctor.

"Ishtar…"

He was being talked to.

"_Ishtar…_"

With insistency. He obliged, and _mmm_-ed at the Coroner.

"This is Dr. Bluewhite…"

The blond teen with the Mohawk nodded towards the blue-eyed woman, who was very beautiful in a very vampiresque way.

"See," Bakura explained, and the satirizer in him took over, "she's a forensic pathologist. Yugi Matthews told us it might be in your best interest to see a doctor, but, seeing that I'm not in charge of a daycare exactly… I'm afraid she was all I could come up with."

Although Officer Gardner seemed to be not entirely pleased with the arrangement, Dr. Bluewhite was smiling as if she were a doctor of living people.

Dark Malik stood on the threshold of cool nonchalance and mad laughter. He leaned towards the silent side, for the moment: nothing could surprise him anymore, he guessed.

"It's been _so long_ since I had a patient that … you know… breathes," the doctor said, somewhat sheepish but utterly thrilled, as if it would _reassure_ him.

Somehow, it suited Dark Malik. He indulged in a smirk, and some (absolutely FOREIGN and new-born and unsettling) gallantry.

"Pleased to be of your _interest_, ma'am."

Bakura and Officer Gardner inwardly recoiled. In that exchange and that choice of words, there was something so psychotic and so _wrong_...

.

.

.

Ryou returned with some sandwiches some time later, and Officer Gardner gladly accepted one. Bakura was smoking.

"They're still inside, Mr. Ysbryd." the policewoman told him.

The landlord blinked. "You let him in alone?" he asked the Coroner- a veiled reproach.

"He can't get away from that room without coming out this door," answered Bakura, exhaling smoke.

Not even the tick-tack of a clock stirred the heavy quiet that draped over the corridor where they waited, and Officer Gardner sighed.

"Inspector Kaiba hasn't found any new lead," she commented, as if no-on knew, "It's weird that Mr. Ishtar is with us and not being questioned to death…"

"He wouldn't cooperate," Bakura said, absent-mindedly, "And the Landlord is very persuasive when he wants to."

"Did he tell you anything?" the policewoman asked, this time addressing Ryou; who shook his head no slowly.

"I don't think he _knows_ anything…"

She frowned. "So why do we keep him? It _must_ be stressing for him…"

Bakura eyed him like she had just talked about intelligent plant life in other planets. "He's a damned street rat with a criminal record the length of the Thames… his kind doesn't get _stressed_," he said smoothly.

"He's young…"

"He's not so young."

"He _is_ wasted like he shouldn't," Ryou observed, playing with a dreamcatcher that hung from his pouch. "Criminal or not, it was a good idea to bring him here."

Bakura shrugged and hmph-ed. "The good it does to me to be around moralists." The sarcasm in his voice was so thick it was heavily unappreciated.

A good thing it was that Dark Malik, knowing the too real threat of being voodooed into coaxing, did not put up a struggle against Dr. Bluewhite. He just chose the loveliest spot on the white wall he could find, and fixed his glare there until the wiry woman considered she was done, blood samples and everything. All the while, she chatted away nonsense that, strangely enough, Dark Malik did not find annoying despite the tiny little fact that he was not paying her any slice of attention at all. It was just that her voice was slight and pleasant, and in a way scraped off some of the lugubriousness of the office. (They were, after all, in the Forensic Department…)

Bakura was the only one to rise to his feet when they came out: he had considered Officer Gardner's duty with him was through for the day, and sent her home. Ryou, he was just reading whatever, and transparent Malik was reading over his shoulder.

Amused, the Coroner noticed the teenager's black shirt was almost completely buttoned, but chose against making any snide comment, in wait for Kisara's diagnose.

Patting Dark Malik on the back as if he were a kid or a long-time acquaintance, she brushed the top of his Mohawk and got a low but savage growl in response.

She smirked. "You, little night creature," she addressed him, _almost_ endearingly, "Eat, sleep, and cut it with the smoking. I told you already. And wear warm clothes, it's not like it's _spring_…"

Kisara saw him not caring a bit about what she was saying. "I'm serious about the last part," she warned, and turned to the Coroner.

"As to what he's got, I must run some analyses, but I'll have them ready for Monday and I'll call you, Bakura."

She knew how to get him to make no protest. She just wasn't asking him.

"Whatever," Bakura said, and dedicated a flash glare to Dark Malik, who glared back at him with a ferocity that was unneeded.

Soon, the three of them were on the street again, and the watch Bakura carried in the pocket of his coat informed him it was already 2 pm. He glanced dubiously at Dark Malik, who was reluctantly eating one of the sandwiches Ryou had bought.

What was he supposed to do with the kid now? He could almost feel Malik's incorporeal eyes searing the back of his head with a hellish glare. There was something akin to the bond of a promise between them.

_You've to help him_, the spirit had pleaded… just how far was he bound by that? It went without saying that he wasn't willing to become too involved with _anything_, but he just didn't know anything about promises with the not-quite-dead.

_If this guy's the main suspect, he'll have to be around for questioning, _Bakura's tired mind tried to reason, _but in an hour and a half he's not under custody anymore, and he'll get lost for good this time_…_ we'll have no new leads, this damned case will go on forever, and begone, peace of mind, if I ever had you. So what now?_

The Coroner _knew_ it was Kaiba who had to think that through, not _him_, but then again, it was all part of that game of charades they were playing. As soon as it leaked to the press the spectacularly truculent murder case Scotland Yard was working on, complete with a love triangle of sorts and ancient Egyptian spells, farewell to catching the killer if they'd failed up to now. And Dark Malik could not be taken into custody for murder for long without evidence, and _Bakura's head hurt_.

So help the punk, then? So help _him,_ because if his mind snapped, then he was not of much use any longer.

As if on cue, Ryou tapped his shoulder.

"See, Bakura," he said, "Apparently, he (he nodded towards Dark Malik) can go free in an hour or so, right?"

Bakura nodded gravely. _What, do we have a mind link now too, Landlord? _He thought with resigned sarcasm. What? It could even be possible…

"He lives here and there," told Ryou, "but he's not _essentially _got anyplace to go…"

Oh, no.

Time froze and Bakura felt his teeth grit. He _knew_ where _that_ was leading to.

"So I offered him a room- there's an old one I never rent because a kitchen pipe leaks, but otherwise it's fine…"

Doom.

"You're not asking me for my opinion, right?" Bakura said, losing a battle he'd never even _fought_.

Ryou shook his head with patience and a mild knowing smile. "No, of course not. I'm just telling you."

_Right. Well_, the Coroner's mind got as far as that while he saw his landlord approach Dark Malik and tell him something, and, strangely enough, did not get surprised when Malik appeared behind him and said, "You must thank Ryou, he's making everything _infinitely_ easy for you."

Bakura sulked. "And what would _you_ know?"

"Oh," Malik said, sounding as conniving as he must have when he was alive, "I know, trust me on that."

.

.

.

As Dark Malik _voluntarily_ walked with them from Scotland Yard back to the apartment complex, Bakura could not help resenting that, since 3.30 pm, he didn't have an _ounce_ of authority over the rebellious teenager any more. And who did? Oh, yes.

The Landlord. With all his 'friends on the Other Side' thing and voodoo mumbo jumbo.

And the worst part of it all was that the guy was _likeable_. That did if for Bakura always: he could not comprehend how the ever-feared Landlord could be so gentle and conciliatory and… he'd rather not go on. And there was also the fact that, the Coroner had noted, the Landlord seemed to like _him_… like him as in, find him companionable. _Why_? Even if Bakura conceded the younger man was not such a monster as he had once fathomed, that still did not mean he was glad to be in his presence.

Nothing would change the fact that the guy was a voodoo doctor that talked to the dead, made deals with them, hexed people and could make zombies. The mere thought of only that made his skin crawl… _and he was a Coroner for crying out loud_!

It was just ironic that he should have to remind himself of that. He made sure people were dead, and there was his Landlord, happily walking the world with the ability to raise the undead. It didn't mean that he actually _did_, but still, it was macabrely paradoxical.

…As of late, our Coroner was easily side-tracked. He did not like to think that perhaps he was dealing with more than he could cope with. He shook his head in irritation and kept walking.

It didn't surprise him to find he'd fallen behind, so by the time he reached the building, Ryou, Dark Malik, and Malik floating behind them, were waiting for him.

"I've got _keys_," Bakura growled under his breath, but although Dark Malik smirked with scorn at him, no one really paid him attention.

While Bakura called him '_Ishtar_' as rude as it would come, Ryou'd solved the problem of Dark Malik's name by just referring to him as '_him_', or '_hey_'_. _Although both men hadn't ever actually _discussed_ the issue, Bakura thought with contempt Ryou's was really a… Solomonic decision.

"I thought you'd want to know where he'll stay…" the Landlord dropped.

No, really, Bakura didn't give a rat's ass for the punk (who was stifling a cough with his sleeve, at the moment). The sooner he was out of his sight _the better_. But the Landlord was right, as per damn fucking usual. It would be useful to know, in case he had a question or anything.

Well, not like the punk cooperated with _him_. But still.

Bakura shrugged and Ryou took that as a yes with his usual gentle smile. He quickly went into his apartment and retrieved a set of keys, and led them upstairs to the first story – the same as Bakura's.

The Coroner was the last one coming up the stairs, and he unwantedly witnessed the following exchange:

"I'm… glad you've somewhere to stay, brother," Malik said in a whisper that was not meant for either other men to hear.

"Like I need it," Dark Malik said under his breath.

The spirit sighed. "You do. You _know_ it."

"So what? With or without roof, I scourge this fucking city. _You_ know it…" the teenager replied with sticky (fake) sweetness.

"Give the mob a break," said Malik, tiredly, "What if you're getting a second chance?"

Dark Malik did not get to reply to that, because the staircase came to an end, and there Ryou waited patiently with a couple of ghosts of the place that looked with curiosity at the new comers. Ryou waved them away with courtesy once Bakura joined them, and led the men and the spirit to the last room in the corridor. Bakura felt a pang of nostalgia when they walked past the door of his own apartment, but could do nothing but swallow it for the time being.

As the Landlord explained goodness knows _what_ to his soon-to-be new tenant, Bakura looked around- he'd never actually bothered coming to that end of the corridor, because it always looked dark, uninviting and, needless to say, spooked. But Dark Malik's door was the last of the row, and the corridor ended in a rectangular window that let in less light than it probably should. The Coroner walked over to it and looked out: it offered a boring sight of the grey neighbor buildings, and bits of an alleyway. Someone kept a marihuana plant in a minuscule filthy balcony, a couple stories high in another building. He sighed, and when he turned to see what Ryou and Dark Malik were about, he saw they'd already gone in. He only peered into the apartment (it was dustier than his own, if possible, and smelled like an attic. Old and closed. But he figured the punk couldn't complain… _why had he agreed to come in the first place_? Well, like Bakura cared.)

Malik, apparently allowing his brother some privacy, floated near the threshold with eyes vacant. Bakura always got the feeling that he must have been all but that silent when he was alive, but well, he had no way to know that, and he didn't really care.

Much like he found himself doing those days, his mind drifted back to the murder investigation; but this time, he actually came up with something. It was small, and maybe silly, but he was surprised he hadn't thought of that before.

"Hey, Malik," he called, and immediately the ghost's faded lavender eyes found his, "Who killed her?"

"I told you already," the spirit said, sourly, "I can't know, and I can't meddle…"

Bakura smirked, or sort of. "I know _that_, but what do you _think_?"

Malik looked puzzled.

"No facts, your opinion alone," the Coroner specified. He didn't lose anything if he asked, right?

The ghost smiled and frowned at the same time (the Coroner guessed he could do that because he was dead)… "It was not Mahad Sikh, of course not. And Rishid couldn't either…" He sounded helpless.

"The list of possible suspects is so _vast_ and _colorful,_" Bakura said with dripping sarcasm, "All that's really left is your public enemy of a brother, your father, if he ever graces us with your presence, or a mysterious third party with a thing for gypsy women..."

"Respect for the dead," Malik growled, and added, "I don't know, Bakura. I think I'll go for the third party… father or brother… No, no one that knewIsiscould honestly kill her. She was…" he cleared his throat, "You couldn't not like her."

"Kaiba questioned her customers," Bakura commented, arms crossed, now leaning against the wall, "but, you know- it's not an official murder investigation… _yet_, so it's not much he can do. Anyway, he doesn't think they're worth much… Your sister was an asset to them, she played no significant role in their lives."

The Coroner sighed. "It's pitiful that the Met is _this_ stuck."

Malik shrunk his shoulders, in a gesture that clearly read, _well, I can't really do anything about that_…

"You know," Bakura said, pushing open the window with all his weight (it had been probably closed for _ages)_, and lighting a cigarette, "If it weren't for you, _and_ the Landlord, Ishtar over there would be very much in jail now."

"I thought so," Malik said, "The cops always get everything mixed up."

"You're very confident he didn't kill her," the Coroner observed not without the intention of making the spirit elaborate.

The spirit shook his head. "He loved her, in his way…"

_Wouldn't surprise me if 'his way' included merrily stabbing her to death_, Bakura thought grimly, but listened as Malik said,

"I think he visited her, once, or twice…" seeing Bakura's face of _how would you know that?_, Malik decided he could indulge in a bit of… story telling.

"You really don't know much about my sister, do you?"

"Nope," Bakura answered, _and I don't particularly care_, he mentally added.

"Well, listen me," said he spirit, "She could see the future, yes, but she had strong spiritual powers… like I had when I was alive, and like brother. The thing is, she had _trained_ that… Father taught her a lot, and the rest, she learnt alone…"

The Coroner nodded to show he was following, but he wondered where the spirit was taking him.

"She could see _us_," he meant _spirits_, "talk to us… and invoke us."

The Coroner blinked. "…a medium?"

"… kind of," Malik said, "The thing is… I could keep away from them, but if sister called me, I _had_ to go. It was like a pull, you can't resist it if a good… 'medium' invokes you."

"… right."

"Right. She called me now and then."

"This version is a little different than the one you told me before," Bakura cynically commented, remembering how the ghost had talked of quasi-exiling himself to brood about the next life.

"No one ever tells you the whole truth," Malik commented with a small smirk, and again the Coroner guessed a glimpse of how the young man must have been while alive. "Except for Ryou, maybe," he added, and Bakura wondered if that comment was necessary or even relevant.

(They wouldn't be mind-joggling him if he had a say in it!)

Malik cleared his throat, something he really didn't _need_ to do. "And, she told me. Once or twice. That brother had dropped by… he didn't talk to her much. I like to think he's not been consumed by the… _dark side_ yet. That there's still hope for him."

Bakura shrugged. "That's entirely up to him."

"Yeah," the spirit admitted sheepishly, and, leaving the Coroner in the corridor, peered into Dark Malik's _new_ apartment, walking straight into a conversation he'd never thought he'd hear.

"What's the thing in your ear?" Dark Malik was asking, as he opened the door of a cabinet under the kitchen sink and peered into it.

"It's a shrunken skull," Ryou said affectionately, caressing the ominous trinket with his thumb and index finger, "It's a token from my passing rite. Every houngan inMartiniquehas one."

Dark Malik considered his interest to be sufficiently piqued enough to get his head out of the dark and dusty cabinet. "Cool. Whose head was it? Can I have one?"

"I don't know, I had to shrink it to pass the rite. I'll never forget that day…" Ryou said dreamily.

Even if Malik was a spirit, hearing those two talking like that certainly made him wonder if the new company would _really_ be of any use.

.

.

.

2 a.m.

The Coroner could feel vice and depravation in the late night air of the docklands as he strolled down the solitary lane of the pier. To his left, black cargo ships towered over him, and rose out of the filthy fog like spectral monuments.

He breathed in greedily; it smelt of tar and muddy seawater (although it was the river alone, the silentThames). Lighting yet another cigarette, he thought that maybe, maybe, when that case of hell was over, he could take some quiet vacations by the seaside.

Actually, he doubted he would. But it was at least a nice thought to look forward to.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Guys! **Happy New Year** for all!

Ryou is excited about 2012 because he's been in contact with Mayan stuff, so he's really looking forward to that prophecy ;)

… no, really.

This is the longest chapter so far! We have Kisara back into the picture, and some games of question-and-answer. And a better insight into the character's personalities. Also, I wanted to write more Malik because he's so silent he's almost a stranger! And he's the one who got the wheel turning… so to speak.

Comments are greatly appreciated, and constructive criticism humbly accepted :)

See you next chapter!

.

_To my adored reviewers:_

**_Hana-Liatris_**: Spiderman ENVIES Ryou's aracnic sense. He'd sue him, but then again he knows what's best for his health ;) As for those questions, if I answered them, why would I even continue writing the story? XD LOL! But more Kaiba to come, *that* I can tell you.

And YESH. DIETH BAD TRANSLATORS; YE GIVE US A BAD NAME! xD

**_RiverTear_**: (what's meme style? I'm reading it everywhere and me don't knowz ;_;) Can't help the comic relief. Otherwise this fic should come with tissue paper included :P

**_Darth Mudkip_**: yay! Glad it's up to expectations! Coroner's Court FTW! =D =D =D What about this chappy?

**_mari marz_**: yay for pictures! I'd like to make a good, serious one for when the story is finished… like a group picture or something. And they'll look SEXIER I promise ;) And Ryou always manages adorable and sexy at the same time … anime, manga… I'm glad I can pull it off more or less acceptable =D

Yami Malik isn't easy to write at all, because he's so… modernly evil :P. And he HAS theCamdenTownpunk vibe! *happy dance*…

Thanks for the kind words, dear. It's one of the most complex stories I've written, and it's awesome to know it's likeable =D

.

_**Next chapter**: Bakura finally oversleeps, and, slowly, wheels begin to turn._


	10. Chapter 10

_Sunday morning._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

The Landlord opened the door with perfect stealth, and stood on the threshold.

It was years since he'd come into that apartment, pretty much since Bakura had moved in, because there was something other than a physical boundary between one side of the door and the next one. Really, Ryou did not like to _pry_ into the privacy of any of his tenants, but he also guessed that with Bakura there was another reason. For all the magic that he knew, the Landlord could not explain it… why the grim Coroner had always felt… different. Particular. It may have had to do with the fact that Ryou knew the man could sense the spirits in the place to some extent, and he was _always_ sympathetic to people with some degree of spiritual power. It may have also had to do with that, amusingly enough, Bakura reminded Ryou of his own father, Dr. Ysbryd, whom he had very much loved until he was killed in an expedition in sub-SaharanAfrica. Something in the eyes and the color of his hair, he guessed, or perhaps the aura he gave off. Whatever the reason, Ryou had not once violated that boundary between his merry world of spirits, voodoo, and plantlife, and the shadowy realm of the Coroner's room, where the blinds were never opened.

Yet, Dark Malik roving down the corridor behind him, Ryou stood on the threshold.

Nothing stirred inside, but a smell that reminded him of mould oozed lazily towards him; and, seeing the Coroner's keys and the wallet discarded on the desk by the entrance, the voodoo doctor felt a strange pang of something in his stomach. Like of guilt, but not… maybe pity.

"Hesitating, dear Landlord?" Dark Malik's deep voice whispered in his ear from behind. Ryou shivered, but he wasn't taken by surprise.

"He keeps this place hideous," the young man of the skull earring observed in a whisper.

"It's only dirty, no big deal. I've seen 'em worse," the fiendish teen said, "vendettas, or places of junkies, swarming with vermin and stench." He sounded cool and nonchalant, and honest. "You got it easy."

The Landlord frowned. That was a peculiar confidence boost, but it somehow did the trick.

"Bakura…?" he called tentatively.

The silence didn't answer him, but the Coroner's sleeping presence was easy to pick out. Everything was so… quiet.

Ryou sighed and shifted his weight. "To intrude… or not to intrude," he mumbled.

"You already did," Dark Malik observed.

"Right," the Landlord quickly said, and quickly added, "If I didn't have a conscience, I'd be in deep trouble having you around."

The teen mock-bowed. "You flatter me, Landlord."

Ryou _tsk_-ed, something he didn't normally do, and ventured further into Bakura's apartment, past the living room and into his bedroom. In some way, Dark Malik seemed to respect the great shift in the odd power-relationship thing going on between the two men, (or maybe simply didn't give a damn) because rather than follow the Landlord, he smirked at God knows what evil thought and left. Once out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall and slouched to the ground; where, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his stomach, he closed his eyes and took a nap.

A shift of a power relationship was mentioned, am I correct? What was changing was really their bond, in the raw. Ryou had, and he knew it, not only come in uninvited, he was also going as far as to invade the privacy of his room. And who does that? Family, or friends, certainly not your landlord, and most certainly not a stranger.

"…Bakura?" the younger man called tentatively, and a groan came from somewhere in the deep darkness of the Coroner's room.

Ryou felt around in the darkness that grew dimmer as his eyes got used to it, until he touched the edge of his bed and, eventually, Bakura's pant leg under the covers. Smiling to himself in amused resignation, he shook it. "Wake up, I have to _show_ you something," he said.

The groan of annoyance he got in response was louder than the previous and more definite, it distinctly sounded like _fuck off_.

The Landlord felt Malik snickering somewhere behind him, but he royally ignored the ghost, and tried again: "Bakura, it's me, Ryou, and you _want_ to-"

But he'd said the magic word, and the Coroner sat up abruptly, teeth gritting in (not horror, but) dread, and, though sleepily, clearly said under his breath "_Landlord…!_"

Ryou laughed at how needlessly _strangled_ he sounded. "Relax… good morning, by the way."

Bakura let himself fall back again on the pillow, as if the world was falling on him too.

"_They_ complained, about you coming late last night… (or early this morning), but don't pay any attention to them really," Ryou said _too_ conversationally.

Bakura groaned.

"But I never _meant_ to wake you up to spite you," the Landlord spoke in complete honesty, "I found something in the ink… Something… _relevant_. So drop by my place when you can, you _must_ see it."

The Coroner's maroon eyes followed the young man as he silently made his way out of his lair of a room, and sighed. He was underslept and hungover, the shadows did well to hide the dark halos round his eyes and his mud-smudged toes (don't ask, _never_ ask) and his tobacco-stained fingers from when he picked apart the ends of his cigarettes and toyed with the health-impairing contents.

He sighed, because he _needed_ to sleep, but he saw ahead of himself a menacing shadow looming over his presumably idle Sunday: work.

_You can always take a nap later_, his mind sarcastically announced him._ Yeah, right, _he answered himself, _right after I win an all-inclusive trip to the Caribbean._

.

.

.

Dark Malik, arms crossed as he leaned against his doorframe down the corridor, _laughed_ at him. And his unsettling laughter followed him all the way back to his Landlord's apartment.

.

.

.

Why wasn't he surprised when the door opened on its own accord even before he had time to knock?

He didn't bother announcing he was there because, _evidently_, the Landlord knew already. He made a sight apt for compassion, what with his tired eyes and faded jeans, and the black jacket he'd thrown over a grey shirt he _really_ needed to get washed. He looked homeless or unemployed, absolutely _not_ like 'His Majesty's Coroner'.

Which he was, and would be for a _long_ time.

"I'm in the kitchen, Bakura," Ryou's voice called, "Take a seat… somewhere… make yourself at home."

Weird invitation, Bakura thought. He knew the dining room (it also functioned as a living room, since it was a rather large room) from the last time he'd been there, still, he had a hard time telling it was the same place: now, it looked unexpectedly like a mad scientist's working place… and he was very inclined to think he was not too far from the truth. Countless open books lay scattered all around the place, on the arms of the sofas, on the floor, on the chairs, and the table had been taken over by chemistry implements and strange-looking potion-like pots. And feathers, twigs, amulets, chunks of bone and ritual symbols that gave Bakura the ultimate creeps.

The Coroner couldn't help asking, "What's all this stuff, Landlord?"

Quiet snickering came as a response from the kitchen. Bakura sulked, leaning against the entrance door, because there was really nowhere for him to sit down.

Well, he'd always despised Sunday mornings anyway.

"I was making you some coffee," Ryou said when he came back into the room, barefoot, wearing black slacks and a simple khaki shirt although it was not warm enough for him to be wearing that. Bakura had never paid much attention to the little tattoos Ryou had on his hands, but, as the younger man handed him a smoking mug (that smelled heavenly, by the by), he couldn't help looking at them. Because it seemed as if they were… fresh. Newly made. Whatever.

"I've picked up information, from here and there," Ryou said as he cleared a sofa for Bakura to sit down, scooping up three thick volumes from the arms, and a couple of tables with scientific-looking information on them. "…and I must say reading Sherlock Holmes is the best inspiration source," he chuckled, at an inner joke perhaps, the Coroner failed to follow a thread of coherence.

So he just drank in silence.

"It's Colombian coffee, it's really good, isn't it?"

Ryou seemed to be on excellent spirits. _Well, good for him_, Bakura thought moodily. But he nodded. Superb coffee.

The Landlord hummed as he set up something under a microscope, presumably for Bakura to see. "I've been vague, sorry," he said when he was done, "I _know_ where this ink came from."

Bakura blinked, slowly. "Wait. . . _what_?"

"This ink- I can tell you where they made it. Take a look here, if you want."

Bakura obliged, but all he saw under the microscope was a puzzling picture that resembled bad modern art.

"I isolated the components, too… it's almost completely herbal." Oh, then Bakura remembered- Ryou wasn't just a crazed voodoo doctor, he was a botanist too. He'd not been paying that much attention to the young man when he'd told him… who would have thought he could actually…

"It's a lead, isn't it?"

Ryou grinned, and Bakura couldn't help noticing there was something that ran innately creepy in the way he grinned.

"But I'd like to talk to the anthropologist… to Dr. Atem, if it's possible. Before we jump to conclusions."

"You already did that, didn't you," the Coroner asked slightly sly.

The young man answered with a small smile. "Yes, but I'm not telling you anything."

"Right. Of course…" the Coroner sighed, he felt _so tired_. "I'll get you that prick's number."

.

.

.

"You look less mortified than you should," a mocking voice observed as Bakura opened the door.

The Coroner groaned. "Fuck off, Ishtar"

"I'm doing just that."

Bakura ignored him best he could as he went into his apartment and fetched Atem's phone number for Ryou. Maybe they were getting lucky. Maybe the investigation… or whatever it was… _was _going _somewhere_.

"The Landlord just found something, you know. In the ink. Maybe we can _finally_ get some evidence to get you _hanged_. "

Dark Malik chuckled in his deep voice and smirked. "Try it, _please_. I'll be right here… it's always a pleasure to laugh at you, Bakura."

Bakura was wishing the punk had chosen to run away instead. Whyever did he stay around for, anyway?

Maybe he could leave it all to the Landlord: ink, Ishtar, investigation, _everything_, and crawl back into bed and _die_.

.

.

.

Malik had popped out of nowhere while Ryou was on the phone, and Bakura flipped through the pages of a book on voodoo in creolized French he didn't understand. Exactly his idea of a quiet Sunday.

"Answer me something, Bakura," The ghost said when he finally tired of reading over the Coroner's shoulder (unlike Bakura, Malik did understand French, and it annoyed him that the man passed the pages so _fast_ he didn't get to finish the sentences), "Why doesn't the Yard open a murder investigation? It's high time. And a _houngan_ is doing their work."

Bakura effectively shut the book (and did the damned thing just _wail_ just _now_?... he didn't want to _know_) and snickered quietly. "Kaiba doesn't want the press bitching their noses…. It _is_ really better when murderers don't know you're after them," he conceded, with some wry sort of humor. "See, it's a shame to the department if it leaks to the public that they've absolutely no _clue_ what to do now…. A-and last, but never least, he hates Crawford, the Prosecutor, with a passion." He paused, remembered some scenes. "It's quite funny," he added, although the ghost was looking at him with eyes that hinted at 'what a poor excuse'.

Bakura shrugged a 'can't do much', and picked up another book. A guide to Welsh baking. Oh well. At least, this one appeared to be… harmless.

Meanwhile, on the phone, the following conversation took place:

_"Someone that knows Coptic will usually know Hieratic as well, probably also Arabic and Latin," _Dr. Atem explained,_ "This person chose, however, to use Coptic. My educated guess, because so far I have only theorized about this, is that the Coptic language is subconsciously linked to a religious behavior… a 'pagan', so to speak, religious behavior. Otherwise, the choice of language would be different."_

The Landlord, pen and paper within reach, nodded. "Right. I have been told Ms. Ishtar knew Coptic… but she couldn't have written that on herself, it'd be too difficult."

_"Yes…"_

"I'd say, it was her father, then. He is an educated man with a thing for the occult, I've learned."

_"It works in my scenario," _Atem agreed, "_But bear in mind you never know if a third person may be around._"

Ryou sighed. "Yes, that would make things more complicated. But for the sake of the… scenario…"

"_Right,_" Atem agreed again, "_If the father wrote that, it is most likely he made the dye himself. If one could speak of modern-day priests, they would definitely syncresize ancient rituals with a more… actual means of expression -Coptic, in my opinion, would be ideal, for the strength of the words…_"

The conversation went silent as both men organized their thoughts. Atem, Ryou noted, was excited about the language choice, but that was not what had made the young houngan call the anthropologist.

"But updating the language doesn't mean they've to change their traditional… ink recipes -to call them some way- right?"

"_Not at all,_" Atem said, getting an inking as to where the voodoo doctor might be pointing. He turned on his laptop, since he felt they might need the comprehensive databases he had access to. "_In fact, (but please, do remember I am theorizing) it would make sense they did not- magical beliefs are closely linked to sacred materials… although telling _you_ this might be redundant._"

Ryou chuckled quietly. Yes, it was rather redundant- it was what had made him conceive the idea that, once developed, had led him to calling Dr. Atem. "I am going to read to you the components of the ink," the young man said, "If we're lucky, and this spell was documented, we may find out what its purpose was."

Dr. Atem was getting that thrill he knew so well; the thrill of the pursuit and eventual discovery. It was just as looking for ancient burial sites in the middle of the desert. "_I'll be needing some time to run the equivalence in the database, but think of it as found, Mr. Ysbryd._"

Ryou made sure the anthropologist had his number, wished him good luck and hung. Bakura had dozed off in a very uncomfortable position on the sofa, and Malik had apparently got bored and disappeared.

The Landlord looked at the Coroner and let him sleep, he knew he needed it. Rather than remain in the dining room, he walked in silence to the kitchen where he brew himself some of his strong-scented tea, he sat on the counter and thought. Summarily, if he and Dr. Atem made things connect, it would be possible for them to know not only where Mr. Ishtar was, but also whether he was implicated in the murder of his daughter. It was an appealing prospect, and he smiled in anticipation.

He knew what motivated Dr. Atem to help him- he'd sensed it in his voice. The thrill of the hunt. It excited Ryou as well, because he too was, in a way, a predator. Well, he'd always frowned at that word. But he liked to do good, and _hated_ it when the bad guys got away. And he'd made Malik a promise. And he really did believe Dark Malik was innocent (he'd taken him in… had he not?).

And Bakura needed help, _badly_.

And he would've never _dreamed_, back when he was still an eager ginger-haired teenager who dreamed big, that he'd be helping out in a criminal investigation. _That_ was a novelty.

And it thrilled him.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'm so sorry for the late update. Writer's block... you know. And I've been painting, too, and that's so time-consuming.

And I've been writing 'shadow realms' (check my account ;) ;) it's a great story about what would happen if the Yamis came back after the series' end)

Well. Enough of excuses.

This isn't the longest chapter, but I felt that adding more scenes to it would make it off-topic. It's very important that Ryou's gone into Bakura's apartment because a boundary of formality was broken... with all that's happening, they can't go back to their former landlord/tenant relationship. Well, that's kind of an obvious thing to say at the moment, isn't it?

Anyway. Now we're actually going somewhere... well... the investigation I mean. Stay around for the next chapter! Stuff HAPPENS!

(omg... it really does =D)

Read you soon!

.

**_To the awesome people deemed as "reviewers" by the site, whom I'd rather call Internet friends =D :_**

**_Hana-Liatris_**: yeah, Bakura's so human he gets to be hungover XD perhaps Ryou should brew him something voodoo to make him feel better XDD

**_RiverTear_**: brief Kisara in the last chapter but there shall be more! I like the character too much :P But I guess excited!Ryou kinda compensates XD he can be so creepy, hahaha

**_mari marz_**: I loved your review so much there went the Sherlock Holmes reference, dedicated to you :P Seriously, Sherlock is my oldest platonic love I think, it's the highest honor ever to be told this humble story makes you think of him *blush* I'm sorry for the slow development of the Ryou/Bakura thing, but I'm thinking of adding a chapter once the story is done to see how they interact... To round up the characters' evolution I guess :)

.

**To people who add the story to favorites or alerts**: Guys, I appreciate the silent support, I really do. Each reader means the world, and I'm thrilled you like the story enough to want to keep on reading it :)

.

_**Next chapter**: Phonecalls are made, the plot thickens, and there be dragons. Of the fictional kind. Ye beware. _

_(...where did the serious/grave element in this story go, anyway?)_


	11. Chapter 11

_Sunday afternoon and Monday._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

It was not hard for him to find the best place to listen. Crouched by the entrance door, knowing that sound always came clearer from _under_ the door rather than through it, he made himself comfortable in a way that only he could (and thankfully it was Sunday, which meant empty corridors and no prying noses… other than his).

The Landlord was soft spoken and he could barely make out what he said, but the Coroner thought he was witty being sarcastic, and what he could not gather from Ryou he learnt it from Bakura. He also knew his presence had been sensed already, by that hellish houngan (and HE was the one complaining about hellish, unbelievable)… but he had to be thankful again because, for a houngan, Ryou was not too… he lacked the word. Suspicious would have to do.

Odd. He'd given them _all_ enough reasons to be suspicious of him. Yet there he was, doing what he was doing, with _impunity._

He passed a hand through his Mohawk. Maybe _that_ made him look more like an angsty, socially-shunned teenager and less like a deranged madman? He wasn't sure he liked the effect (although it'd come in handy in this particular situation) but… He cracked a smirk. Angsty teenager. Okay, he could work with that.

The Landlord, on the other side of the door, was asking something, to which the Coroner replied:

"What I think, is that if the man was about to marry off his only daughter to _him_, they knew each other bloody well."

_I was damn right, _the punk told himself darkly, _it's that bastard they're after. _By 'that bastard', he meant his father- the person he hated the most in the entire bloody_ universe_, that had managed to slip off his fingers so many times. Dark Malik, though faintly distracted, could easily pick up the sound of fingers dialing. Ryou said something he didn't hear.

"Yeah," Bakura said, "If I leave out something, scream." He got a sweetly caustic comment in response, and he snickered uneasily.

The punk shifted his weight into a more practical position, which left him completely lying on his stomach on the floor by the door, ear as close as possible to the space below it, his stubbly chin resting on the backsides of his hands (_he needed to shave, he observed. For the sake of the teenage attitude? He grinned like a shark_).

Inside, Bakura was on the phone- meaning, Dark Malik heard everything as if the Coroner'd been talking to _him_.

"_Mahmoud Rishid_?" Bakura asked, the punk's eyebrows lifted in surprise. _That_ man, on the phone with his neighbor? What a small world.

He shook any further though off his head. Everything was irrelevant, except what he had to listen. _Focus_, he darkly berated himself.

The man, Rishid, on the other end of the line, must have acquiesced, as the Coroner said, "_Good. I'm the Coroner, you may remember me…_"

Dark Malik guessed another affirmation.

Bakura continued. "_Exactly_…_ Yes. And that's why I'm calling…_" He made a pause, probably listening to something Rishid was saying to him. "_Some of us aren't lucky enough to get 'Sundays'… Anyway, this becomes official tomorrow first hour, just thought I'd give you some extra hours to do your thinking…_" Silence. Quiet snickering. "_We do need your help, kind of you to offer it._"

It was Dark Malik's turn to snicker. Bakura saying the word 'kind' made it sound like he was about to steal from a kid. Creepy and ill-intended.

Suddenly the Coroner's tone of voice shifted: it rang business-like and deep and damn _precise_. "_Look,_" he said, "_Write down what I'm about to say to you…_" and he dictated a number of words that made no sense whatsoever to Dark Malik, but, nonetheless, the young criminal kept each and every absurd one of them in mind. _Now_ they were actually getting _somewhere_.

"_Now think, Mr. Rishid, can you think of a house that fits that description in Tower Hamlets?" _Bakura stopped to listen. "_It needn't have even been _his_ house_." He stopped to listen to what the Arab at the other end of the line said.

"_Well,"_ Bakura concluded,_ "…very well. I'll be calling again tomorrow morning…_"

It wasn't a threat, Dark Malik noted, but hang him if it didn't sound like one. His mind was in revolution as he texted himself the indications the Coroner had given Rishid. So they actually had a lead as to where they could find his darling father? He might just have to do some little pick-pocketing of information of his own… Grinning as he reveled in the prospect of things to come, he pressed the _send_ button. Great. Now, to get the hell away from there-

His ringtone wasn't a flashy thing (actually, it sounded kind of like people screaming), but it was noticeably enough a ringtone to make him cringe. _Damn_, he cursed himself for his stupid inattentiveness (he'd forgotten to silence the damned contraption).

As if on cue, the apartment's door swung open, and Ryou looked down on him with a rather amused expression on his face. Dark Malik was aware of how much like a deer in the headlights he looked. It was not funny in the very least. What was funny was Bakura's scowl peering over Ryou's shoulder.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," the teenager said as casually as he could while lying on the floor after (obviously) being spying.

"You know… you could've just knocked and asked," the Landlord said, offering him his hand to stand up (which the punk chose to accept), "It's _your_ family, after all…"

Dark Malik smirked, and Bakura didn't like it, but then again, the Coroner didn't like _him_.

"I guess I've a reputation to keep," the punk said nonchalantly. And walked into Ryou's apartment.

.

.

.

It was a grey and foggy Monday morning outside the window; and inside, Dr. Kisara Bluewhite got her white coat on, wrapped a deep indigo scarf around her abnormally pale neck, and put on her matching hat and mittens (that resembled a dragon head and paws, respectively). She grabbed a thin paper envelope from her desk, placed it carefully in her waterproof bag, and began to walk to the New Scotland Yard, humming a merry tune.

_I'll let you know when these analyses are ready_, she'd told Bakura, but then she'd thought it over, and… it'd been _ages_ since she'd been to the building of the Met, always working odd hours under her white fluorescent lights in the laboratories. And the company was so _lame_. Dead people and stuck-up bosses (_like Dr. Hawkins_, she thought), and each scientist was really so specified and had such a narrow field of action that she hardly ever got visits, only some "Hey, how's that body going?" or a "Anything new, Dr. Bluewhite?", and that was about it, and it was so _dull_.

Kisara really liked her job, because it was like putting together a puzzle or reading a well-thought mystery novel, but it did get lonely sometimes. And, as she worked weird hours, she hardly had time to go out with friends… who'd want to go out Wednesday 2 pm or Sunday evening? It was usually only her in the apartment those days; she, a movie, and Dragon. Dragon was her pet albino snake, she'd found him by chance in a Vet's store one day she decided she'd get herself some company… originally, she'd thought of a goldfish, but… there he'd been, so alone and so… _white_. He'd brought him home, and she kept him in a large fishbowl. And they watched movies together.

She got a weird stare or two as she happily walked down the not too crowded streets- the strangely beautiful white woman with the dragon hat and the enticing eyes.

Soon enough, she came to the large doors of the main entrance to the New Scotland Yard. People came in and came out busily, continuously, and she stood there just watching for some minutes, until a security guard came up to her and asked if he could help her.

She beamed at him."I'm Dr. Bluewhite, from the Forensic Services Department," she said, and flashed her ID card at him, "I'm bringing some documents to the Coroner, but I'm afraid I don't know the way to his office…?"

The security guard, encouraged by her beauty and good manners, was more than eager to show her the way, but she kindly declined, said the directions alone would be enough; and the man complied.

She walked into the building mystified as if she'd crossed the gates into Atlantis, which again gained her some odd stare, but she never minded those. She found the staircase without difficulty, but when she reached the first floor and turned right, like the security guard said, she was perplexed to find far more doors and offices than she'd anticipated. The corridor was empty and silent, so there she stood, pondering on where to knock, when fortune smiled at her and someone came out of a door.

"Excuse me?" she called, immediately getting the man's attention. He wore a brown smart coat over a neatly ironed white shirt, and a tie. On the coat she could see a metal badge, probably indicating he was someone with a rank, but she could not read what it said.

Dr. Kisara Bluewhite was scanned in about two seconds by well-trained eyes, and soon enough catalogued as 'interesting'.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted with her usual high spirits, "I'm afraid I'm… kind of… mazed."

(an eyebrow lifted at the choice of words)

"I'm looking for the Coroner's office, could you tell me which of these thousand is the one?"

(both eyebrows lifted slightly at the question.)

"The Coroner's office, you said?"

She nodded, and then, realization dawning on her, she said, "Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I'm Doctor Kisara Bluewhite, from the Forensic Services Department. I've some papers for him."

"I can hand them to him if you want," said the man, who was none other than Detective Chief Inspector Seth Kaiba himself, "I'm having a word or two with that scoundrel today."

Kisara had to stifle a giggle. It was a word that, oddly enough, fitted Bakura. Kaiba quirked an eyebrow again at the odd behavior.

"I'd rather do it myself," she told him, now looking at the man under a new light: the light of an accomplice (or so she labeled him). "There's a thing or two I should explain to him…"

Kaiba shrugged. "Very well, doctor, suit yourself," he said nonchalantly, and smirked "By the way, you do realize you're not dressed like you should to be here, right?"

"It was cold outside…"

"Hardly. Is that a _dragon_?" he asked, clearly meaning the hat. Was he actually having a _conversation_ with that woman of the Forensic team…?

"Yes!" she replied cheerfully, "It's from that comic, _Battle__ City_… Didn't you ever read it?"

He pointedly looked at her.

_Nope, he hasn't_, she thought, _High time I left, right?_

"Well… um," Kisara began, mentally scolding herself for fidgeting, "Would you show me the office then, Mr…?"

"…Chief Inspector Kaiba," he finished with ease, secretly enjoying the surge of blush that delicately tinged her cheeks, "And, you're standing right in front of it. Have a nice day, Dr. Bluewhite."

He nodded courteously at her and walked into another office.

Kisara shook her blush off and made herself stop thinking about what a fool she'd made of herself in no other than the famous Inspector Kaiba's eyes, and knocked at Bakura's door.

She got no answer, which was not normal or so she thought, it was not _that_ early, right?

She checked the time and paled ( if that was possible).

It was barely 6.15 am.

.

.

.

Bakura had meant to phone Mahmoud Rishid as soon as he arrived at his office, but fate had different plans in store for him. In passing by Kaiba's office, he was whisked inside by the inspector himself, who looked like he was living on no sleep and liters of coffee.

"You've _taken him in!_"

Bakura flipped- because _damn him_, Kaiba, the Queen or the devil itself no one bloody _talked_ to him like that! And whatever the hell the inspector was accusing him of, suddenly he felt like defending it for the sake of spiting the other man.

He crossed his arms over his chest, cocky sneer and all, and countered, "So what?" (_and whom?_... his brain ticked.)

"So_ what_?" Seth seethed. (In all honesty, the Coroner had never seen the man _that_ angry.) "The main suspect. Of the most obscure case of ritual murdering the Yard has seen in _years_, and _you've taken him in_!"

(_Oh_, Bakura blankly realized. Well, in his defense, _he_ had not exactly… taken him in. But make Seth bloody Kaiba understand _that…_)

And Kaiba was not done yet. "Working undercover doesn't possibly _ring a bloody bell_ inside your smoke-filled skull, doesn't it?" (_this kind of treatment is new_, the Coroner observed coolly, although pressure was building inside of him too. But he wasn't the type of man to get angry. He stayed in silence.)

"It's a bloody _feast_ for the bloody _press_, you damned fail of a Coroner! You're exposing us _all_! If this leaks to the papers… just stop two seconds and_ picture it_."

"You know what they say, inspector… keep your friends close… and your enemies closer," the Coroner snidely supplied.

Did Kaiba just _growl_ under his breath? "Don't you go witty on my ass, Bakura," he threatened in a low voice, "A word of this in a headline and I'll be pleased to photograph your ass getting kicked out of Her Majesty's service, _believe me_."

Bakura sneered his contempt. "You got any lead? Any new _clue?_" He didn't let the man response, he added, "Suggestions as to how to keep 'im in check…? You know, at least _I_ know where _your_ main suspect is. Hard to do it _your_ way, you know, working undercover and everything…"

Oh, no, the Detective Chief Inspector didn't like _that_ one bit. "We are the _law_, don't you forget that…" he threatened under his breath.

"Yeah, and since you've been handling things in the most traditional way possible, respecting every single procedural aspect, I guess I really should apologize…" He cackled. "And the _law_ can keep a few eager journalists at bay, or am I wrong…?"

"… and fucked up," Kaiba finished.

Bakura mock-bowed. "Thank you, chief."

"You read that record- smuggling, assault, armed robbery, illegal extortion with even more illegal methods, and must I continue, and a damned psychiatric history. Are you out of your _mind_?"

"…I'm sorry, inspector? I thought I heard you giving a damn about my persona…"

"About my investigation. _You_ are compromising my investigation" _And my reputation too, somehow_, Kaiba mentally added, bitterly.

And that statement was final.

_For all you've been investigating and discovering, I'd hardly say it's YOUR investigation, chief_, Bakura thought. He owed a lot to his rank. Had he not been the Coroner, he'd have been literally kicked out of the Yard a long while ago, and by Kaiba himself, probably.

With a last glare over his shoulder at the Detective Chief Inspector, he silently went out of the office, slamming the door behind him. If an emotion akin to thankfulness existed inside the dark Coroner, it was probably wrapping lovingly around him as he walked to his office, because the police officers in the corridor tactfully avoided looking at him; and he badly needed to slouch on a chair and light a thousand cigarettes and wallow in coffee. _And die_. No. Not _die_. Kill something.

_I know_, he thought grimly, _I'm stuck in this bloody case while I'm thinking I'm getting unstuck_, and now he was –also- having to take the blame for the penchant his landlord had for cheap charity.

There was a note attached to the door of his office with scotch tape: he first reckoned the unfamiliar paper (the light-blue page of a small notepad, decorated with some deep blue design he'd rather ignore), then he snatched it and read it in a millisecond. Kisara? She'd been there?

It was 9 am but he could already tell he had a day of rarities ahead of him.

Somewhere in the pockets of his coat, he had that new cell phone he'd gotten after the last one's unfortunate… demise. So, after entering his office, he dropped on a chair (coat still on, he rarely got it off those days) and texted the forensic pathologist, telling her that yeah, she could come later if she wanted, (phone him, fax him, _whatever diverted him_ _from killing another Ishtar_) he'd be in his office the _whole_ day.

He had this suspicion, you know… that he wasn't actually going anywhere. He was just about to prove himself right. But, first things first, nicotine. He didn't even bother opening the window, and the bluish smoke pooled around him- if someone had come in that moment, they would have thought they were not in the HQs of the Met, but in some fantasy land of dimness and fog.

Sighing, he pinched his brow. Picked up the phone.

(A dull _beep_ indicated he'd just received a text message, but he had no time to read it right _then…_)

From the other end of the line, a deep, steady voice that was starting to become unfamiliar no more wished him good morning.

"Mr. Rishid," Bakura said, aware and unmindful as to the fact that _that_ was not a matching greeting, "did your thinking?"

If the crude lack of formality bothered the man, he did wonders to hide it, which actually gave their conversation a misplaced air of congeniality. "_Yes_," the Arab informed, "_But I must ask you for more time. I need to talk to a colleague first._"

Bakura frowned. That was not alright (his intuition was not satisfied), but what could he say? "I'll be trusting your discreetness" he quietly told Rishid. _Bullshit_, the Coroner's inner voice chimed, _you don't trust anyone!_ Bakura sighed inwardly, okay, so he was talking to himself. _It's an EUPHEMISM, damn it._

"_Yes,_" the merchant of antiquities said again, "_I will call you. When I know for certain._"

"We count on that," the Coroner said grimly, and barely replied to the courteous goodbye that Mahmoud Rishid offered him.

.

Bakura was picking on his tousled ponytail and absentmindedly signing a couple of new deaths to be sent to the Registrar when Dr. Bluewhite knocked on the door and entered. The Coroner only lifted his gaze to look up at her, and quirked an eyebrow at the thing on her head.

"Is that a _hat_?" he asked, torn between dull and amused. She laughed under her breath.

"Yeah," she said meekly, "And refrain from making any comments."

_Absolutely_, Bakura thought sarcastically, but only cracked a halfway smirk. "Running away from work? Tsk tsk," he commented.

"I needed some_ air,_" she answered, "A walk and some human contact do good from time to time."

He cackled more openly than he was used to (maybe he was just exhausted, even if it was Monday) "Curious choice of human contact you've made, Kisara."

She took a seat. "Yeah, I know," she conceded, "But the state of my socialization patterns leaves me with little other choice…" He smirked again, somehow unperturbed by the fact that he was always the leftovers. Well, like he didn't foster it. Whatever.

"Aaanyway," she cleared her throat, "I've got these analyzes for that lovelyCamdenchild of yours…"

Bakura somehow scowled, frowned and growled at the same time. She chose to ignore him.

"It looked really clear when I saw him, but, you know… living people… I wanted to run these tests myself first before coming to any conclusions."

He didn't speak or nod or anything, but she just knew that he was listening.

"So," (was she fidgeting?) "He's got pneumonia- but nothing a few antibiotics can't manage."

The Coroner glowered at her. "I'm not spending a bloody _penny_ on that menace." _Pneumonia?_ He thought with mirth, _That's rather undignified, eh, Ishtar?_

She shrugged. "Your conscience is yours to live with, Bakura."

He scowled until a thought made his lips trace a smirk. "But… you know… I can give you the phone number of someone who actually gives a damn."

"Really? Who?"

"My… Landlord."

She beamed- "You mean that super handsome young man? The one that came with you the other day…?"

The Coroner blinked blankly. "Yeah, the very same."

"Awesome!" she blushed (…and Bakura lifted his eyes to the heavens. _I never thought I'd live to hear this,_ he thought), she smiled sheepishly, "I mean… yeah… that'll do. Your… Ishtar, wasn't he? Ishtar, he should be fine, but he absolutely needs to take some medication…"

Bakura sneered. "And not only for his bloody _lungs…_"

.

.

.

Ryou called him an hour or two after that.

"_Your friend the doctor called,_" the young voodoo doctor told him, (and he didn't even bother arguing that he didn't have _friends_), "_She asked if I could get some medication for dark Malik?_" (Bakura chuckled, the Landlord was also pet-naming the irritating punk).

"Did she," Bakura said, absolutely unenthusiastic.

"_I'll take care of that, Bakura, but we'll talk about it when you come back tonight…_" Ryou sounded just how Bakura imagined a mother must sound, but he wasn't a man with a point for comparison.

"By all means do," the Coroner said, plainly ignoring Ryou's last words.

"_Fine… did you talk to Mr. Rishid? Dr. Atem says he's not found any match yet… and I don't think he'll find any. It must be a spell the man himself developed._"

Bakura frowned. "We'll just have to trust Mr. Rishid, then. He says he's got to do some asking around. Whatever."

Ryou sounded like he was smiling. "_Good luck then, Bakura,_" he wished, and, leaving him no time to answer, hung.

.

.

.

Despite his initial intentions, he closed the shop of antiquities much later than he'd wished. A quick glance at his watch told him it was well past ten pm, and he wouldn't make it before half past eleven. Because he had a lot of thinking to do, and he wanted to walk.

The streets were like an old ink painting, and the yellow street-lights created ominous ghosts in the early fog that rose from the narrow sewer-pits. The air was chilly because winter drew close, and foul from the nearby docklands. Usually Rishid found the stagnant seawaterish stench rather endearing, it was part of his daily life, but he had to fight against the urge to consider it suddenly nauseating and malevolent… he forced himself to accept that _he_ was the one in commotion, and not the world around him. A silly kind of commotion, stemming from the fact that he was about to pay a very un-announced visit to someone who may or may not welcome him. It was just that Rishid was too courteous a man to want to drop without notice… but then again Mr. Ishtar didn't answer his phone calls.

He would have liked so much that the pavement was not so harsh and so gray and so filthy, and that the shadows in the building he passed by did not hang over him like a threatening scourge… but his conscience was at unease. Burying his chin in his pitch-black scarf, the Arab man walked without haste down the street, stirring a homeless man or a stray cat awake as he passed.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This chapter is made up of snippets, and I tried to make it as cohesive as I could, but I do apologize if anyone was a bit lost. As usual, please do ask anything that left you in doubt :)

My investigation for this chapter took me to Tower Hamlets, which is a borough in London by the docks with a lot of Muslim immigration, not to mention it's in East End, an area associated with poverty and delinquency. It also led me into the fascinating medical field; I did my homework on pneumonia. But I'm not going to bother you with useless facts, I'll let the story speak for itself =)

I'm afraid we're reaching the end of the story, in case the last scene did not completely give it away. I promise I'm doing my best to write neat and clear so as not to disappoint anyone...

And just out of curiosity, what do you guys think is going to happen now?

Till next chapter!

.

_I'm dedicating this chapter to the celebration that I *finally* got my hands on the latest Subway to Sally CD *swoons*_

.

**_There were lots of reviews for last chapter! I love you guys!_**

**_Cana-Puff:_ **there went a lot obf Bakura/everyone! (And Dark Malik is my favorite character, his mohawk stole my heart from the first chapters haha xD)

**_DarthMudkip:_ **Perhaps Bakura should take some vacations by the seaside once the case is over? I'm thinking of writing that, I don't know :P

**_Hana-Liatris_**: Who's going to find the murderer? You'll never guess =D

**_RiverTear_**: Haha, minor subplot? ;) ;) I don't know... there may be... I've not thought of it yet! It's high time I did :P

**_mari marz_**: I also found it cute that Bakura reminded Ryou of his father =3 Oh! Kisara calling Dark Malik 'Camden child' was absolutely inspired in your review the other day xD Everyone's so creepy in this story xD

**_SlayerFaith_**: Creepy Ryou is creepy, and grandmotherly, lol. But he is kind of freaked of this new behaviour streak, don't worry. And Bakura... hard not to like him. He's so... emo xD

**_ilovemanicures_**: I love you. I'm still thinking how to reply to your awesome review, it overwhelms me. Thank you SO much, dear :)

**_Rie Niou_**: 3 am? The best time to read fanfiction EVER! I'm glad you found it interesting, hope you're finding it so still ;)

.

**To people who add the story to favorites or alerts**: Guys, I appreciate the silent support, I really do. I'm thrilled you like the story enough to want to keep on reading it :)

.

_**Next chapter**: In which there's a knife, the Ring, and someone writes a note._


	12. Chapter 12

_Monday night._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

It was too cold a Monday night for the streets not to be empty, and, as he slipped through foggy alleyways, a promise of death hung over the grey city.

_Thrill_, that was what welled in his throat and turned him on like mad, as if his insides were on fire, preparing for the most macabre feast of their existence. He was ecstatic. A celebration, the corollary of all his waiting and anxiety, of all his unwillingly vivid and unwillingly recurrent nightmares, of his life in wretched exile and madness and every . single . moment . of . suffering . in . his . life.

He rubbed his hands together in delightful anticipation (and he was cold, very cold, and he was fighting back a cough almost since he'd set out, but he didn't care, everything his body might suffer it could endure, he knew it, he'd _tried it out._) He was not that far. He knew he wasn't. It'd been hard at first, connecting with the right people, wriggling information out of them, following Rishid as he did much of the work his _contacts_ in the streets could not, but _finally_, he'd gotten that address.

The old man prayed every night he didn't find him, well, now he was on his way and he'd better be done with his prayers. Because, if he, Malik Ishtar (much as he hated his name), got his way that night, someone was not going to need to pray any more.

He'd tied back his Mohawk in a sloppy ponytail, traded his eye-catching tartan trousers for a pair of black ones. He was wearing cheap sneakers he'd burn later, and thin plastic gloves, and he walked with the stealth of one who smuggled weapons across the border to the IRA, who played thug for one mob or the other for substantial commissions, who pick-pocketed during most of his younger years to make it to dinner.

His surroundings were poor, filthy and monochrome, and up above him the sky threatened with rain (he could hear thunder in the distance- a thought caught him off-guard, that he should hurry). It was not difficult to find the house- a ruinous brick building that looked as though it had once belonged to a set of terraced houses, but now stood feebly and squished between two other equally ruinous, though taller, buildings. The blinds were shut, and no light was on, but to someone trained like Dark Malik it was clearly not abandoned and, most likely, he'd find someone inside. And he knew precisely _whom_.

He surveyed the street at both sides of him- fog rose from the concrete, and though the street-lights crafted odd shapes out of the shifting mist, it was very difficult to make out anything too clearly. It was the perfect night to break into a house.

His throat itched when he drew breath sharply and produced a crippled Swiss knife from his pocket. It only took him a couple of twists to undo the lock of the main door, and he gently pushed it open and slipped inside, closing the door (chipped wood planks that looked frankly unstable) just as silently as he'd opened it.

He passed the entrance hall, a little square room without any interesting feature, with ease as if it wasn't submerged in complete darkness. The next door he unbolted led him into a living room, dimly illuminated, austere decoration.

A face he remembered with utter loathe stared wide-eyed at him: how had he not heard this intruder come in?

"What do you want? Get out of here," Mr. Ishtar commanded with an authority he hardly possessed over him. _The nerve of the vermin_, Dark Malik thought. He allowed a passing… something to point out in his head that his father had evidently not recognized him.

Dark Malik sneered and played with the piercing in his tongue.

He savored the moment.

His father rose with blatant indignation from his sofa, and the book he'd been reading fell on the floor with a dry noise that reverberated like it shouldn't.

"What do I want?" The teenager shook his head, still smirking his contempt, "Nothing, I don't want anything. I'm just an evil spirit come to visit…"

His words seeped into the man's head like venom. "It can't be… _you_ can't be-"

"Come, old man, your flesh and blood you don't recognize any more?"

"You, insolent child of the devil-"

"It pains me, really," Dark Malik said with dripping sarcasm, placing a hand on his chest as if he intended to mean his heart, "First you killIsis, then you don't know me?"

He chuckled. "It must be the old age. There are institutions for people like you."

Perhaps Mr. Ishtar did not regard those words to hold any particular meaning, Dark Malik would never know that, but they were burned like a curse in the teenager's mind. '_There are institutions for people like you', a tall, strong Egyptian man had told his twelve-year-old son, 'I don't need to bear your evil any longer, you wretched child,' and Dark Malik's back had healed not long ago but the scars were still fresh, and a helpless older sister Isis had wept in the corner of the dark room, and his father had taken him out the back door and it had been a bright, sunny day outside…_

Under his father's barely unfocused, unsettled stare, he strolled around the room, walked into the kitchen, peered into his father's sleeping room- the only one in the house. The man must lead a secluded, almost secret, almost underground-like life. It only made Dark Malik twist in disgust and contempt.

Although any normal person would have felt the silence to be too uncomfortable and too oppressive (not to mention that he'd _broken into _that place), the teenager was too carried away by his frantically racing thoughts to even care.

When he returned to the small living room, he found his father pointing a sharp knife at his neck (a long, slender blade with an ornate bone hilt).

Dark Malik only chuckled. "One down, one to go, old man?" he taunted.

"You know nothing about Isis," his father said in a low, dangerous voice, "Her death still grieves me. But I won't grieve over _you_."

Dark Malik's chuckle became a hushed, deranged laugh.

"If you kill out of _love_, then it makes no sense that you kill _me_," the blond teen observed. It apparently made no difference that a deadly blade lingered dangerous centimeters away from his throat, Dark Malik had not even spared it more than a glance.

"Shut up!" the man roared, "You don't know, _anything_!"

"I don't want to, either," the teenager said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

His father was tense, holding the knife in place with both hands because he was not steady enough to achieve a threat with only one. "She was pregnant, out of wedlock, about to stain the bloodline with the bastard of an infidel…"

_Was he giving him an explanation?_

If that knowledge affectedIsis' brother in any way, he did not let it show: whatever he might have felt was neatly tucked under a sheen of cool insanity.

"The apple don't fall far from the tree, old man," Dark Malik said in utter mockery, relishing the implications of what he'd said and the murderous glint in his father's eye.

Was the man really willing to kill him? Excellent. He couldn't have endured a lesser intent.

Dark Malik felt, as a response to his caustic words, the tip of the knife press against his bronze skin and puncture it, and two drops of blood trickled down his neck and collarbones. His pale gaze traveled downwards to take a reluctant look at the object, of which he was obviously not scared.

But his eyes widened in sudden recognition.

A long, slender blade. An ornate bone hilt.

"This knife?" he exclaimed, madness openly tearing inside his eyes, as he took a step backwards, "Noo, I can't _believe_ it… you KEPT it? What a TOKEN! But… no. Don't tell me. It's the same one, ain't it? Tell me… did Isis _notice_? Did you heat it on the stove too?"

Crazy laughter rang louder than he would have wanted if he'd been conscious about it at the moment, but all he could do was _laugh_, at the ultimate joke that was fate, _his_ fate- his mind replayed his recollections of the night his father had tied him tight to the kitchen table, incense and chanting and _all_, (everything twisted to some extent, because those were after all the memories of a scared child); and the spell and the blood and the numbing, searing pain; and that _knife_.

That did it for him, something inside him snapped.

It was curious- as if he'd suddenly been detached from his body and he were a silent, unfeeling spectator. His (gloved) hand, that didn't feel like his hand, reached out and grabbed his father's wrist, twisting it with vice enough for the man to cry out in pain, drop the weapon and fall to the ground on his knees.

He kicked him, God knew how many times, until the man went unconscious and limp.

It didn't trouble him that he didn't remember if he'd killed before or he hadn't. He figured his hands were clean, because otherwise the cops would have had him for good some time ago, but he honestly couldn't recall, and he didn't care either. And all he owed it to that man, squirming before him like a freakish lab rat as if he'd forgotten the pain and the shame and the hatred he caused. (Oh, he remembered: "_What's that tattoo on your back? A scarification, ain't it? Pretty neat job, man. You've got the guts, I tell you, to get that done on ya. Is it expensive? To get one? Looks like the bloody will of Tut… Tut-ankh-amen. Like you're his bloody tomb keeper…" A roar of laughter- alcohol, sex, business. "I'm keeping that," Dark Malik had said at the time, "Tomb Keeper."_) (and if he had to die, no one would ever know that every word was carved by an insane father to keep evil spirits away from his son, because he be damned, _he_ was the evil spirit, himself, incarnate.)

As he looked down on the crumpled, still figure on the ground, there was no recognizable emotion on his face. A glint of silent sadism in his eyes. (he'd done that before, too, make people feel pain until they broke and spoke, or fell unconscious, and all without spilling a drop of blood. It was a job that paid well, and he _was_ good at it.)

He leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back, his gaze looking up at the ceiling, beyond it.

What should he do?

A wave of spite was keeping the brutality at bay. Making a bloody pulp out of his father's body somehow didn't feel like it would make up for years of hate and inner torment, and all that was broken inside him. He needed something more refined, more like vengeance.

How he hadn't thought of anything beforehand mystified him.

He knelt down, picked up the knife. Despite all he'd done in his life, just holding that particular thing made repulsion shake him inside. He spared a thought to his dead sister (an evanescent one).

A smirk ghosted its way into his lips. There were only two words he knew how to write in hieroglyphic script, because they were the words that stood out from his back. That he saw in his reflection.

He gripped the knife tightly, the thrill of revenge taking over any other aversion he might have towards the object, and ripped open his father's clothes. The blade was sharp, and it sliced with ease through weathered bronze skin much like his own, and he wrote deep and large, taking up all his father's inert torso-

EVIL SPIRIT

He wiped the knife clean and hid it in his clothes, and when he was out on the street again, it began to rain-

cleaning, cleansing it all away-

blood, mud, and guilt, but not tears-

because he had no reason to cry at all.

.

.

.

Yellowish street light made every raindrop look like a golden needle; but beyond the protection of the almost-merry halos, the world was a colorless mess of buildings and downpour. The smell of waterwashed grime lingered in the air,

a black silhouette was cut, retreating, by the light against the fog.

Rishid could not say he recognized the outline when the door opened gently under his hand, when he crossed the small vestibule and came to the living room (where the lights were on),

but the wave of dread that shook him to the foundations of his spirit _told_ him, who it was he had seen.

On the floor, a mess of blood and twitching flesh, lay Mr. Ishtar. RIshid's stoicism did not prevent him from feeling sickened, from having to cover his mouth as if his very own breath threatened to escape. He prayed, in silence. He did not know what it was they'd written on the agonizing man, but he knew enough from his trade to recognize the hieroglyphic script immediately.

"Mahmoud… my boy…"

Rishid's breath hitched in his throat. He knelt before the man.

"Sir," he said, as close to frantic as his character would allow, "What happened, sir. I'll call an ambulance, just…"

A bloodied hand seized his wrist in painful grip.

"Do… not," Mr. Ishtar worded with difficulty, "I'm dying… already."

Rishid looked aside, unable to bear seeing the man's eyes white to account for his being alive. In the final spasms of agony, it was Rishid alone who heard his furtive words:

"It must be… divine punishment. Because… I brought into the world a weakling, a whore, and a… murderer."

And he stilled and breathed with difficulty, eyes rolled backwards into his skull.

The hand that clutched Rishid's wrist fell motionless to the ground, but left on the Arab's skin a mark of blood that felt scorching. The imprint of the disgust the man inspired him, and the disgrace he had brought upon the three children he had borne.

A _whore_… Mahmoud's insides twisted in revulsion at the words (he had loved Isis, if like a sister or like something else wasn't important, he had _loved her dearly and_ this man, her own _father_, had thought of her so despicably; and then Isis had told him too, time ago, of the death of her younger brother (a weakling?) and the curse that befell the youngest (a murderer?)… _Can I blame him?_)

Rishid's frantic thinking stopped to analyze that, _Can I blame him_, he repeated inside his head, _Couldn't I have done the same, after hearing what this man confessed?_

Mr. Ishtar's breathing was shallow and fragile… It only took Rishid a second of thoughtless action to stand up and bring his foot onto the man's bloodied ribcage, a second of cold hate to crush it under the hard sole of his boot.

It came to Rishid like the muffled sound of twigs snapping.

Only one tear trickled down his cheek as he crossed the room and found pen and paper. Not because he regretted the decision he had just taken.

It was only a kindred spirit dedicating a thought to a broken family, so much unlike the one he, many years ago, had had.

.

.

.

"He's coming," Ryou commented, "… dark Malik. He's easy to sense."

Bakura shrugged. "Really? Easy for _you_, at any case."

His Landlord shook his head and eyed his tenant for a while, almost… _studying _him. Bakura did not like it one bit. "What?" he asked, a bit narked.

"You're just not… _listening_ to the Ring, are you."

"The Ring…?" Bakura repeated, frowning. True, he usually felt energies that danced around the magical object in response to heavens knew _what_, and he felt them shift and accommodate and _change_- it was as if they enhanced and colored what he himself perceived around him… but he hardly paid them any attention. He was just more skeptical than he should at that point.

Ryou shook his head again, this time smiling softly. "By now you won't think that it _only_ lets you interact with the _other side_, right?"

(… So what if he should have noticed that? Bakura's life was just too hectic for him to bother with a silly magic Ring.)

"It enhances your spirit power, your magic, what the ancient Egyptians called _heka_," the young voodoo doctor explained, "And you, Bakura, you've got a little of that innately. If you can master the Ring, you'll get quite powerful…"

Bakura scoffed. "I don't care too much about your witchcraft, Landlord. In fact, I only like it as long as it leaves me alone."

"It's rather useful," Ryou commented, matter-of-factly, "…it lets you know who's coming, for one thing. And, talking about that, there is something… _off_… about dark Malik tonight." His face darkened suddenly, and Bakura did not like the change at all.

"Focus," the Landlord said under his breath, looking grave and sinister and much like a shadowmancer, "Feel the Ring. It must be swirling in glee, it has a thing for the wicked."

Truth be told, but reluctantly, and now that Ryou pointed out the feeling, he could sense it alright, the Ring pulling at the energy, making it _swirl_ (just like the Landlord had said,) around it merrily… as if it tried to reach out to the source of the black sentiment.

Bakura was rendered speechless as he was captivated by the workings of the Ring- he had that distinct feeling of the world falling into focus, like he had experienced when he'd first put the magic artifact on; only that now the pull back to his very own senses was stronger, as if he'd sunk into a deeper, more complex level of perception. In a masochistic, machiavellian way, he was exhilarated.

Meanwhile, Ryou, who mastered the art of spiritual perception, opened the door with eyes narrowed and lips tightly sealed in a way they looked livid and stern.

He peered out to the corridor.

A shadow opened the main door in silence and trod carefully towards the staircase.

.

Instead of horror at being discovered, the look on Dark Malik's face mirrored the scorn of the defeated when Ryou blocked his way.

"'Night, Landlord," he greeted with a smirk that didn't reach his half bloodshot, half-crazed eyes. "Are you here to pull me back into that hell of a jungle like last time?"

Ryou shook his head slowly, and said, not in an unfriendly way, but gravely –a veiled threat- "No, not unless you make me."

"Good," he said, and closed his eyes. There was blood on his clothes, and he'd left a trail of muddy footprints on the hallway.

.

.

.

He'd been caught in the rain; that much was evident. His hair fell over his shoulders in wet disarray, and both Bakura and Ryou had a hard time recognizing him as he was; drenched, wrapped in one of Ryou's fluffy bath towels, and barefoot. He allowed himself to cough- he'd been holding it for what felt like _ages_.

"What a sight," Bakura commented with easy scorn as he surveyed the teenager. What he got in return was a strangely vacant stare.

The Voodoo doctor sighed and left into one of the rooms, returning shortly after with a mess of clothes he thrust into Dark Malik's arms. "Get changed," he commanded dryly, giving him a slight push towards the bathroom. The punk didn't even consider complaining, and was soon out of the room.

Ryou frowned sourly and strode into the kitchen, where he filled the kettle with water and began mixing some herbs on a pot on the counter. Bakura followed him.

"There was blood on his clothes, Landlord," he commented, "Are you sure you still want to play nice?"

Ryou set the kettle on the stove, and turned around to face his tenant, leaning against the counter. Bakura stood by the doorframe.

"I don't want blood stains on my sofas," Ryou said quietly. "Come," he gestured the Coroner, "Let's go to the other room."

Despite the third person in the apartment, the living room felt empty and bare, and it was as if everything inside the Landlord's house had died a little- the strange manuscripts unfolded on the table seemed bleached, the ritual masks on the wall felt less spectral, less ominous. The yellow light that engulfed the scene looked a shade colder, and Ryou looked himself a shade paler.

Bakura didn't need the powers of the Ring to notice it: his intuition, something that worked wonders in criminal investigations and hardly surfaced in day-to-day life, was stirring inside of him. That's when it clicked (although, given the blood and the harshness and the Landlord's sharp change of mood, he should have noticed before…).

Things felt, and unfolded, as if he were in a crime scene.

_That's ridiculous,_ he coolly tried to reason with himself,_ Regardless of what that punk did, nothing happened HERE, and the Landlord and I, we're not involved_. The Coroner wouldn't ever admit into his reasoning that perhaps he felt things close to him because, for once, he _was_ involved. And way more than he would have wanted- he was involved because he was, if slightly and very reluctantly, sentimentally attached.

He groaned mentally.

"So, Landlord, what happened?" He tried to sound confident and cocky and detached, but he didn't feel impartial enough to know if he'd pulled it off.

Ryou was lost in thought, and Bakura hated the way he turned to look at him without seeing him. "We'll let him tell us."

The Coroner smirked. "You don't know."

Ryou shook his head, slowly.

"I wish I didn't."

Bakura quirked an eyebrow. "Why so mysterious, then?"

Ryou didn't intend to reply to that, but if he did, he couldn't have; because, although Dark Malik walked in silence into the room, his presence was so strong (as if a black halo surrounded him) that he could have stomped in and the effect would have been the same.

Silence and expectation.

He resembled his ghostly brother so much, wearing Ryou's plain clothes, his hair down, the eyeliner almost completely washed off, that the Landlord and his tenant had to double-take him.

Wordlessly, the teenager strode to a sofa and let himself fall down on it. He was exhausted (emotionally, physically not so much), and the soles of his feet ached from walking a long distance barefoot, and from scrubbing them furiously some seconds ago. He pinched his brow and his hand his face from view, and Bakura wondered if he wasn't doing it on purpose- hiding his face.

The whole behavioral pattern he'd set in his mind as regards the outlawish punk seemed to be all askew. Bakura didn't know what to make of it, and it annoyed him.

The kettle was boiling in the kitchen, so Ryou stood up, returning after some minutes with tea. Even if he could guess what was about to happen, he still handed Dark Malik a mug (instead of the cups he and Bakura would be using) and told him, curtly, "Drink it. It'll do you good."

It smelled strongly like honey and eucalyptus and cinnamon, and the scent slowly spread in the room- together with the warm light from the strange lamp that hung from the ceiling, it made the scene feel almost homely.

Dark Malik drank in silence. He felt distinctly awake and warm inside, and he was probably right to blame it on the voodoo doctor's tea.

Seeing that nobody would speak, the Coroner guessed it'd be up to him to set up the inquiry.

"So, Ishtar, what did you do?"

Blunt, crude, very much his style.

Dark Malik dedicated him the quickest, most indifferent glance he'd ever received. A plain, _like I'd tell YOU_.

"Was there any other sibling you'd forgotten to off" the Coroner taunted. Subtlety? He didn't know what that word meant, Ryou's glare towards him was unreadable anyway.

Still, that got Dark Malik. He chuckled under his breath in a manner so voracious it sent chills down both men's spines.

"No," he sounded rarely amused, "But I may've inadvertently avenged one!"

He laughed.

To some extent, Bakura's eyes widened. The Landlord, as a quick glance told him, looked bitter and self-chastised. Suddenly, the Coroner knew what had just happened: it was as if he'd been pulled out of his body to examine all the facts of the murder of Isis Ishtar, as if everything had been orderly set out on a white, aseptic mortuary table for him to see.

He didn't need the Landlord to tell him he was right, not even Dark Malik's confirmation.

"You killed your father," he stated.

The teenager smirked ferally, and something was off about the look and the gesture and the _words_. "Oh no," he said in his low, unfitting voice, "he was very much alive when I left him…"

"It's stupid to lie, you know," Bakura informed, "The Landlord here _knows_, you see. He _always_ knows."

Dark Malik laughed.

His laughter was an unsettling thing to listen to- it began low and grave, but it gradually rang shrill and deranged. "He _does_ always know!" he exclaimed, looking at Ryou in the eye, and a single shiver shook Ryou inside. "I told you, right? What I'd do to that bastard… And I did it alright, I took a kitchen knife, _the_ kitchen knife, and…" he paused in his eagerness to tell because he distantly remembered the Landlord had not wanted to hear that part, back when he'd told him what his father had done to him, but it was a moment of fleeting sanity, and he resumed, "… and wrote on him, you know, warning him against evil spirits, and all that crap and I may have written it _too deep_-"

Bakura froze, the frantic words Dark Malik was spewing almost incoherently ceased abruptly: Ryou, who up to then had been gripping the arms of his sofa too tightly, jumped up and _slapped_ the teenager _really_ hard. A red area blotched on his cheek almost immediately. Dark Malik's eyes widened considerably, and he collapsed backwards onto the sofa, eyes still wide open, breathing shallow, teeth gritted- as if he was finally coming into state of shock.

Bakura was surprised in that he would have expected the punk to be a cold-blooded killer. The kind that felt not a speck of remorse, not a sliver of agitation. Then again… maybe he was, the Coroner mused, maybe _this_ situation was just too straining. Maybe he was intoxicated in delight about carrying out his revenge, _finally_. Who knew: the kid was as much of a menace as he was a wreck. (_Behavioral patter askew_, Bakura reminded himself).

The Landlord looked distantly collected, and strangely detached.

"So you didn't kill him," Bakura stated boldly, anticipating Dark Malik's words:

"Dunno. Might as well have," and he chuckled under his breath as he oscillated between being insanely thrilled and sanely shocked.

"Take a shower and go to sleep," Ryou commanded icily, "We'll see what to do with you when you can reason like a human being again."

Bakura quirked an eyebrow- _You think he'll stay around? That's just wishful thinking, Landlord_.

Or may be not, because Ryou added, "And heaven _help you_ if you try to pull any trick on _me_."

It occurred to Bakura as he caught a glimpse of his landlord's lower lip twitching that the young man was disgusted. And it also occurred to Bakura that he could _feel_ Malik's ghostly presence hovering over them, watching them through incorporeal, invisible eyes; and he was not comfortable with either the sensation or the thought (the spirit had been very quiet as of late.)

Dark Malik apparently felt his brother's spirit too, because he looked up and met his transparent eyes without remorse or apparent emotion.

At the same time, the Coroner saw the Landlord hesitate out of the corner of his eye. The younger man chewed on his cheek, debating with himself, a slight frown creasing his brow. Eventually, he walked over to a drawer in a cupboard and took out a little package.

He pushed it without delicacy into the teenager's slim hands. "Read the prescription before you take it."

Puzzlement threatened to grow in the punk's red-rimmed eyes, but neither men felt like explaining anything to him at the moment, and the Coroner dismissed him with an unsubtle gesture of his hand.

.

.

.

"So, my brother's got… pneumonia…?"

Malik's translucent face fell blank, and Bakura pointedly looked at him: "what?"

"I died of that."

"…_what_?"

Malik didn't seem aggravated by the rudeness of the question, only saddened by the memory.

"Father never believed in modern medicine," he said with a shrug, having come to terms with that a long, long time ago. "I was 20, just like Malik now, I shouldn't have died."

_That would explain the lack of medical records_, Bakura thought, slightly side-tracked. "You'd think Ishtar would've taken the hint," he commented sarcastically.

Malik frowned. "He didn't give a damn about living on the street…" with a sigh he added, "He may have even liked it. I don't know."

Ryou had been up to then silently perched on a sofa, eyes travelling through the masks that hung on the walls. "You saw him, he's not stable," he mumbled, "God knows how much _money_ he's gotten illegally, and yet he's lived in the street, like a homeless kid, all these years. He never gave a damn. Life and death don't mean anything to him."

Bakura sneered. "_Evidently,_" he supplied. "Do you think he'll take the medicine?"

Ryou glowered. "He'd better. I _paid_ for it."

Malik sighed. "Even if he doesn't end up in jail, he won't give a damn about it."

"… he'd _better_. I'm not a voodoo priest for nothing," the Landlord said, in a manner so dark and terrible that silence fell like a guillotine over them, and the sudden surge of bitter energy that came from him billowed like a shock wave and made every light in the apartment complex go out.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> As to Dark Malik: I had a hard time with him, and thought I should explain why: it would've been easy to make him psycho and unfeeling, and off his father without remorse. But, I though, this should be like real life, and does that *really* happen in real life? My take is that he'd be torn between crazy and not-so-crazy, and what-do-I-do-now.

... and I'm not going to say anything else today. I'd only like to know what YOU think.

.

**_To my reviewers (3 3 3)_**

**_ilovemanicures_**: I think this chappy was longer than the last one? It took waaaay more inner turmoil to write, at any rate xD

I guess there isn't anything illegal Dark Malik hasn't done (working for the IRA? on a daily basis! hahaha), so spying was a piece of cake. And Kisara... I really like her. She's a great secondary character for this sullen story where everyone's troubled or depressed :P Not to mention Kaiba needs love, no matter which AUverse he's in...

Was Dark Malik psycho enough?

**_Hana-Liatris_**: of course Kisara thinks Ryou's cute! He's a voodoo priest, and she's crazy! Hahaha xD More of Bakura's past? I don't know... I like to keep him mysterious. But, maybe. If I find somewhere to put it that isn't too out of place :P

**_Cana-Puff:_ **YES! KisaraxKaiba foreeeever. I don't have the wits required to write a blueshipping fic that stands out, though I'd love to. Thuuus, they're getting some action here. The least I can do for them 3 More guil-tripped!Ryou in the future, too!

**_mari marz_**: Haha, yeah, Ryou knows everything, always... YESH! Rishid was going to have a little talk with Mr. Ishtar... sadly somebody else beat him to it :P I really really like Rishid, and his character here doesn't exactly have a good time. I guess that's why I gave him such a... big... role in _shadow realms_. I discovered him in this story, though.

And now things just got a bit... hectic? Ryou's starting to think that maybe he wasn't exactly right about Dark Malik, and Bakura's playing laid back...?

And just wait until Kaiba finds it all out...!

**_VivienneLaFaye_**: ...this chapter had its darker parts, though! :P

**_SilverFinDragon:_ **Thanks for the encouragement! I try to do my best with details, they make all the difference in the world :)

.

**To people who add the story to favorites or alerts**: I love you, and you flatter me. Thanks for the support :)

_**Next chapter**: Bakura takes a decision, Ryou is bitter, and the press flock to Scotland Yard._

_._

**EDIT: I drew two comic pages for this chapter! Find them here:**

_- **Page 1**: http :/ bluestwaves. deviantart. com /art/Coroner-s-Court-chapter-12-284716435?q=gallery%3Abluestwaves&qo=1_

_- **Page 2**: http :/ bluestwaves. deviantart. com /art/Coroner-s-Court-chapter-12-p-2-284803756?q=gallery%3Abluestwaves&qo=0_


	13. Chapter 13

_Case closed._

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

Detective Chief Inspector Kaiba had a younger brother, one Markus Kaiba, a journalist. Now and then, he showed up in the building of the Met with this and that to consult his brother. He flashed in, dressed in trendy clothes, and looking like he was eternally 20, when everybody knew he was at least ten years older than that. And everyone wondered, too, where that kid ('kid' and 'Mokie' were the young man's stigmata in the department) had come from. It was hard to believe him and Seth could be brothers.

That foggy Tuesday morning, this Markus Kaiba ran upstairs to his brother's office, greeting an officer or two as he sprinted to get as soon as possible to his destination. He knocked before entering, because he was a very polite man, and when a voice from inside reluctantly told him to come in, he took care to do it in silence.

Inspector Kaiba was looking out of the window, and the newcomer could only see his back, but he was quick to recognize his younger brother's air.

"Ey, Mokie," he said quietly, "If you're here, it means there's no point in trying to keep this a quiet issue any longer..."

Markus smiled sheepishly. Greetings were a rare feat with Inspector Kaiba. "I guess not, brother? Either way it IS rather notorious, a body hanging in the LondonBridgeand dozens of cops around. People _ask_…"

"Subtlety isn't the strength of this department," Seth Kaiba admitted begrudgingly.

"That's what the Coroner said in the crime scene, too," the younger Kaiba said thoughtfully.

The Inspector growled under his breath. "Well, damn him and his opinions…"

Markus smiled privately, and wisely chose not to observe he'd just said the very same thing. The younger Kaiba was the first to admit the relationship his brother had with the acrid Coroner was first and foremost amusing to those who watched them… (and many other things not quite as… entertaining. But he wasn't going to go there…)

"He knew I'd come straight to see you, by the way, so he told me to tell you, he'll be coming soon."

Seth paced some seconds along the window and then sat down on his desk. "I'm ecstatic. Well, take your leave. If you wanted permission to link this murder to the death of Isis Ishtar, do it. With that damnable note the man wrote, it's not like he left any doubt. And Mokie," he addressed the younger man, who was already taking his leave with a victorious little smile, "Be prudent. Say the least you can about Ms. Ishtar."

"Little more than her name, brother!" Markus said with a wink, and left as energetically (and quietly) as he'd come in.

.

It made Kaiba sick- when the phone never stopped ringing. When he took one call (and it turned out to be some silly question of a side-tracked officer) and meanwhile, his cellphone rang too, and his office turned into a freakish sort of madhouse. And all the while he kept getting texts and emails and _how did all that people expect him to do anything_? He was really underpaid. He should absolutely start thinking about charging extra for his services under stress (well, he was pretty much always stressed…)

(and it was always like that when he was delving close to the solution of a case)

(therefore, he should probably charge extra for solving a case)

(…therefore, he should probably just be paid more.)

He fixed his glasses as he spoke to a police sergeant in the crime scene, fixed them again when he talked to Mrs. Hawkins (also in the crime scene), took them off when he paced around the room, and put them back on to check the caller ID on the screen of his cell phone. It wasn't familiar.

Of course, he picked it up. If he was lucky, it'd be some stupid teenager with a foreign accent from a call-center trying to sell him a car or something, and he'd be able to vent out a bit of his tension (a wicked smirk started to come into his lips, but it was a short-lived attempt.)

"_Mr. Kaiba…?_" a woman's voice asked tentatively.

"Yes," the inspector answered curtly. He had really no time for this- if whomever-she-was didn't have time to make sure she'd the right number, then wh-

"_Good, Doctor Hawkins was so rushed when she gave me the number I was afraid I got it wrong…_"

Doctor Hawkins? He'd just spoken to the woman! He looked at the clock. Maybe not _just_, more like half an hour ago. Well, passing-of-time be damned, he was too busy to mind that!

"Yes," Kaiba said mechanically, and added, not exactly kind, "What do you want?" The office phone began to ring again, and the Inspector was inwardly cursing people who killed themselves, and his headache.

"_She'd to leave for the alleged other crime scene, so she asked me to give you a quick overview. I can fax it to your office, though, if you prefer…_"

The Inspector's mind was rushing- the 'alleged other crime scene'? Surely she meant the one Rishid talked about in his letter. They'd found it? So soon? Those, and like twenty other questions span in his head while he made himself focus.

"No, tell me now," he said, and really didn't give a care about sounding too authoritarian, "And pray say, who are you?"

The woman spaced. "_Oh… right. I'm Dr. Bluewhite, from the Forensic Services-_"

"Right, I remember you," Kaiba cut her. The strange woman that paraded the corridors at ungodly early hours. "… and your hat."

She giggled (presumably, in embarrassment), and he frowned. Just where had _that_ last comment come from? But he was so rushed he didn't even allow himself to groan inwardly, and, besides, she was already talking to him again-

"… so, _he committed suicide._" (well, Kaiba thought, at least he hadn't missed the important part), "_The note he left told the truth, apparently. What he used to hang himself was a length of hawser, very easy to come by near the river._"

Kaiba nodded, grunted something that sounded like an encouraging _hmm_.

"_There is blood (a lot) on him- he was probably kneeling on it. And on his forearm, as if a bloodied hand grabbed him. Of course it wasn't _his _blood….,_" she explained, "_I'm running the DNA test, so when I get a match_…"

"Right," the Inspector said, hurriedly. The other phone had started ringing, _again_. It was really drilling into his nerves.

"_… and that's it. Oh, time of death… about 2 a.m. That'd be… almost 8 hours ago. Now _that's_ it, so far,_" Dr. Bluewhite said.

"Good job, girl."

"_Girl…? Why, thank you Mr. Kaiba, that's kind_."

Seth was cursing himself. It was the damned stress and the damned _eternally-ringing phone_ that kept making his tongue (and mind) slip.

That resulted in a strange silence coming from his end of the line.

"_Ehm… I'll… just let you know if there's something new. Good luck with the rest, inspector?_"

"… 'the rest'? That's _crude_," he said sarcastically, and, as soon as he realized what he was doing, he rectified his tone, "Very well… thank you, doctor." And he hung. _Honestly_, he thought, _what the bloody hell_…

… but the other phone rang and rang, still, so Kaiba was pulled from the strange machinations inside his head back to the real world where people got murdered much faster than his subconscious would have wished. Or maybe not… damned if he knew.

He picked up the office phone.

"_Oh, heya, chief_," a voice Kaiba knew very well, and never welcomed, said, "_I was only calling to let you know I'm coming. I know you're very, _very_ busy_… _and didn't know if your brother had informed you…_"

Kaiba seethed….

"… _and thought a call wouldn't be a bad idea_…"

When Bakura hung, the inspector was truly at the end of his tether. That man always found the way to annoy him beyond possible expectations. He hated that damned Coroner so _much._

.

Coffee was a good thing for a morning as busy as that one (actually, for any morning and any lunch-time, and any afternoon, and generally any time of the day), and as Bakura entered Kaiba's office with a smoking cup of the (hot, dark, strong) drink in his hand, he was amused to find the Inspector was also enjoying the properties of caffeine.

Well, with a face that screamed _sleep deprivation_ as much as the Inspector's, anyone would, Bakura reasoned.

"Lovely morning, ain't, chief?"

Detective Inspector Kaiba glowered at him. "Call it how you will. What do you have to say, coroner?"

"Not much, really," Bakura said, picking at his sleeve, looking casual and unhurried- perfect strategy to get on Kaiba's nerves, something he thoroughly enjoyed. He felt that a higher power owed it to him: something in his life that didn't make him miserable.

Well; success. Kaiba looked royally pissed.

"Then get the hell out of my office. In case you didn't notice, we're dealing with a murder and a death related to it-"

But Kaiba never got to finish that sentence, and Bakura had to swallow his snide reply, because into the office burst a police officer that, catching his breath, handed the Inspector a crumpled manila envelope. Only then Kaiba noticed that the phone had been ringing and ringing in the background.

"Ex-cuse me…. Inspector," the officer said, "It's ah… it's urgent. From the unit that went to check the address in Tower Hamlets."

"Thank you, officer," Kaiba said, dead-serious, "Is Dr. Hawkins still there?"

The policeman nodded.

"I'll call her when I read this, then. You may leave." The officer nodded again and left.

The Coroner watched, not unamused, how Kaiba hastily opened the envelope and took a sit at his desk. The few papers inside consisted of a white sheet with precarious, preliminary information (name, address, codes…) and a couple of photographs.

Kaiba's face showed nothing but stern diligence (he'd almost forgotten that Bakura was there, looking at him). His expression didn't wane in the slightest, but the Coroner saw how he paled as he watched the pictures.

"… the hell…" the Inspector said under his breath, throwing the contents of the envelope on the desk. He took off his glasses, and wiped his face with both hands.

"Look at that," he simply told the Coroner- a surprisingly not-hostile command.

Bakura obliged, and a deep frown settled on his face as soon as he took a first glance at the material.

"I'd look on the bright side, inspector," he commented nonchalantly, "At least your work is done. The case solved itself."

Kaiba looked ruefully at his interlocutor. "You can't be certain of that."

"Seeing that I interviewed most of _you_r suspects, I think I can be more certain than _you_, chief."

The Inspector looked skywards for a fraction of a second. _And there he goes again…_ But it was too… straying a thought for Kaiba to dwell on it.

"I was in the Bridge earlier with Dr. Hawkins," Bakura commented, "Saw that letter Rishid left, first hand." He tsk-ed. "What do you make of it?"

The Detective Chief Inspector's frown deepened. "If the blood found on his body turns out to be from the man they found dead in Tower Hamlets… a wretchedly familiar Mr. Ishtar's… He'll be linked to his murder, of course."

He made a pause to take a sip of his (very strong) coffee- it was only lukewarm, but he wasn't attentive to that at the moment. Bakura listened, curious to see where Kaiba's reasoning took him. He himself didn't know what to make of that letter: if it turned out to be true, Dark Malik would be, somehow, in a twisted and unfair way, innocent.

"It's all about the forensic evidence, now," the Inspector said with a shrug, "If it matches Rishid's story, yes, the case may be solved. Mr. Ishtar will have killed his daughter, and Mr. Rishid will have avenged her and killed himself out of guilt."

_However, something… _Kaiba had a hunch, though. But it was merely a feeling of unsettlement, and he didn't know _what_ triggered it. He'd think about that later.

Bakura smirked weakly. "Hangings are uglier than gory deaths."

But Kaiba didn't take him seriously. "… because if this was the England of old George I, they'd have hung you a while ago, that's why, isn't it?"

Bakura deadpanned. "… we pillage and plunder, we rifle and loot, drink up me hearties yo-ho..." He raised an eyebrow at the Inspector. "You know I can read your mind, chief."

Kaiba almost face-palmed, almost. Why couldn't he just damn talk _straight_ with that accursed man?

"You want to know if you can report Rishid's death to the registrar, right?" Kaiba asked, thinking, _I can read minds too, coroner_. "My answer is no, of course," he said, never waiting for Bakura's reply, but _loving_ how he glared at him in displeasure: "Now we've got two murders and a suicide, apparently. It'll take some investigation," Kaiba smirked, "And, if I'm not mistaken, there will be some forms to triplicate waiting for you in your office as soon as I talk to my secretary."

Bakura seethed in silence.

"With all this paperwork ruckus, you must really miss those inquests, Coroner," Kaiba taunted dryly. If that was even possible.

However, against all the Detective Chief Inspector's expectations, Bakura smirked ruefully. Well, he thought, (and the faces of his Landlord, a punk, and a ghost, flashed in his mind,) if _only_ that man _knew_.

"What are you talking about, inspector?" he asked, torn between sour and defeated and triumphant, "You turned this whole city into my Coroner's Court.."

.

.

.

Inspector Kaiba had been in the London Bridge almost as soon as the hanging was reported, before any expert arrived, and had considered he had seen enough, and would be more useful in his office until some preliminary post-mortem information was available.

But as soon as he saw the pictures of the… peculiar scene at Mr. Ishtar's house, and after he'd dealt with his personal bane, Bakura the Coroner, he instructed his secretary to take his calls while he was out. He put on a coat (his gun and badge were somewhere in its pockets) and got a car to drive to Tower Hamlets, that swarmed with forensics and police units.

_After blind-chasing this man across the entire city, we come to find him like this_, Kaiba thought somberly while he strode into the small house. A bloodied corpse lay on the floor of the living room, Mrs. Hawkins hunched over it. A police sergeant came up to inform him of the progress- mostly of little details. He nodded and dismissed him to look around for himself a bit, but as soon as he turned round, he almost knocked into a familiar face.

"Dr. Bluewhite…" he said, slightly surprised.

"Inspector Kaiba…!" the white woman greeted with a smile, "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning," the man mumbled, "Aren't you…" he fished for the best words, "… _unsuitably_ cheerful about this?"

"Forgive me, sir," she answered, not looking willing to feel less high-spirited at all, "It's just that I'd _never_ done field work before. But Dr. Hawkins needed a hand, and it's _exciting_…"

The Inspector lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think of… '_evil spirit_'?"

She shrugged. "A bit melodramatic, if you ask _me_." She paused to think, and Seth Kaiba found himself studying her large eyes and delicate features more enthusiastically than he should. He ordered himself to focus.

"My guess is that what they used to write that, a knife, probably, is gone," she said. "It's a conjecture, no one ran any test yet. But I don't think that's here anymore."

Silence.

"That's… suspicious," he said quietly.

"Or not," she shrugged, "The man that hanged himself could've dropped it into the river. Who knows."

"Wasn't anyone else here?" the Inspector asked.

"A third person?" she answered, "It feels like there should be… but so far we haven't found anything."

He sighed, "Keep looking."

"Yes, sir!" she beamed; and, surprisingly, Seth Kaiba taciturnly smiled back.

.

Murder and then suicide? Kaiba was not satisfied with that, much less after seeing the alleged crime scene for himself. True, it was consistent with a crime of passion (father kills daughter, the man in love with the daughter avenges her). True, there were no actual traces of someone _else_ in the crime scene. True, the forensic analysis of the rib fractures pointed to Mr. Rishid, and _true, _there was a _note_.

But still, the Inspector had this gut feeling… that was, regrettably, of little actual use.

Because unless he could prove that one of all the previously mentioned points was *not* true, the case was as closed as could be. And he was not one to go begging to the prosecution (that damnable kooky Crawford) to re-open it.

He looked again at the pictures his team had taken at the bridge. _You don't go and beat up a man in cold blood, leave a cryptic message, and hang yourself out of guilt_, the voice in his head (very wisely) said.

… but again, he could prove nothing. And without evidence, his sound conjectures were as good as a fairytale.

Or a bed-time story.

.

.

.

The voodoo doctor's garden always swarmed with spiritual energy. It was there he brew most of his magical concoctions, where he honored the loas, and talked to the Other Side.

The linden tree in the heart of the garden was like a stairway for souls in passing and supernatural creatures. Ryou knew it had grown in that very place for thousands of years, since the times when Celtic druids used its flowers for their secret cauldron potions: a dwarf lived under its roots, and, if properly tempted (ale and butterbread did the trick nicely), he was an excellent storyteller. The young Landlord sometimes wondered if he didn't know too much for his own good.

His contact with creatures from folktales was scarce, though, because few of them were left, and fewer even were willing to give humans a chance.

That, and the world was overcrowded with ghosts and unrestful spirits. Because, who didn't leave pending matters before death? Ryou entertained the idea often, that if people were aware of how intimately they interacted with their dead, they'd gruesomely scare themselves to death.

He sighed, watching the souls that spiraled around the linden tree in a slow-motion ritual dance. The ones that reached up highest looked like pretty scintillating fireflies from where he was.

Ryou didn't like the turn things had taken.

It vexed him that he hadn't foreseen it, in some way, but it vexed him twice as much that Malik had not warned him, or _something_. And he, somehow along the lines of Bakura, cursed himself for becoming… attached. He didn't know what to think.

He also didn't know what he had been expecting. He'd been aware of Dark Malik's criminal record; and he needn't be reminded redemption could hardly be expected from people of his sort.

It was rare for him to feel that way, but he was angry. Mostly at himself and his lack of vision. What would he do now?

A sparkling soul drifted towards him from the old wise tree, turning, as it came closer, into the figure of Malik.

"That tree is blessed," he said slowly, "the aura calms you and makes you at peace with yourself."

"That's why spirits love it, and why there's so many of them in this area," Ryou explained tiredly. "I sometimes think it drew me here, too."

"To help us pass on?"

"I don't know," the houngan said honestly, shrugging, "May be. It's not what I do."

"I'm…" Malik appeared more translucent than usual as he brushed his transparent hair out of his eyes. "I'm sorry about everything. I should have known it'd end up like this."

Ryou's eyes thundered despite himself. "Yes." he said curtly.

The ghost bit his lower lip, distraught. "Do you know what the Coroner plans to do now?"

"No," the voodoo doctor said, "He isn't easy to predict."

"It's my _fault_," Malik breathed, "I shouldn't have meddled. Now I'll _never_ move on…"

He was a ghost, and he couldn't cry. But his grief and anguish were so great that they flooded the place like a stench, and many souls that gravitated merrily around the linden tree fled away into the dark and foggy sky. It made Ryou shiver, too.

"Malik," the Landlord said on the verge of impatience, "You couldn't have done more, don't _blame_ yourself for everything…"

Nothing changed,

"Goodness, you're _dead_!" Ryou said firmly, losing his calm for a fragment of a second. He felt stupid for that. Was he slowly changing roles with the Coroner?

What was all that hellbound endeavor _doing_ to him?

Malik noticed. "Sorry," he said miserably. "I want my brother to live, like I couldn't. But all I do is make things worse for him. And now, he's done."

Beneath his anger at the situation, Ryou couldn't help feeling bad about the ghost and his brother.

"Father took us to Egypt, once," Malik told him, "We had relatives there, near Luxor. It was beautiful. I was ten, and everything looked so… magical. But Mother died giving birth to my brother, and Father swore that he'd never return there. He missed Mother so much he couldn't take it." The ghost looked sullen as he told that Ryou, who listened with a mixture of feelings he didn't even try to sort out.

"Father always hated my brother. Because mother died because of him. When I died, because, even if Father changed his name, he'd never be me. Because brother was rebellious, and he blatantly rubbed in Father's face powers that Father thought were blasphemous." Malik sighed, drew in breath he didn't need. "And I got him sent to the madhouse. It was my fault… and now Isis is dead, and he's alone. And he'll go to jail, and he'll never know how wonderful Egypt is."

Ryou frowned, touched by the story, but still angry. "He's got a will of his own, hasn't he?" He shook his head. "Listen, Malik. When a spirit grieves himself continuously, grief consumes him, and he becomes so wretched that he forgets everything and becomes a lost soul. A ghoul. Then he can never move on to the Afterlife."

Malik listened, shocked.

"You can't blame yourself for what he does for himself. It's not fair. You did what you meant to do- have us prove that he didn't kill Isis. Let him free, now. He's not chaining you to him, _you're_ chaining yourself to him."

Ryou sighed. "And you _know_ he doesn't care much for help."

.

.

.

Dark Malik sat smoking at the end of the corridor when the Coroner arrived to his apartment that night. The window over the punk's head was open, and a cold, unwelcome breeze turned the corridor into a highway for currents.

Bakura scowled.

The teen was a sorry sight to behold. Actually, he looked just like the Coroner remembered he'd left him the night before- he still wore the Landlord's clothes, he was still barefoot. His hair fell blond and straight over his shoulders (it was very strange… unusual to see him that way, without his hair spiked up in a fashion-defying way).

Two black halos around his eyes told the Coroner the teen had probably been sleepless most of the night, and had smoked his lungs off most of the day.

"You look like shit," Bakura commented honestly, stopping some feet away from the slouched teenager.

Dark Malik barely looked at him, but a smirk drew on his lips. "No matter how I look," he said, his voice a note faded and raspy, "I'll always look better than you."

Although it made the teen chuckle under his breath, Bakura couldn't bring himself to feel humored in the slightest.

"You knew Mahmoud Rishid, didn't you?" the Coroner asked. He was guessing there, but his intuition told him he was probably right.

Dark Malik looked up at the man.

"So what?"

_So I was right_, Bakura thought.

"He's dead."

Dark Malik's face was blank. "Well good for him."

Bakura came up to the teen and crouched eye-level with him. "You might want to know," he said, with a suave voice that bordered on dangerous and sticky, "that he hung himself…"

Seeing he was evidently not getting any response from Dark Malik, he went on talking. "… after confessing the murder of one Mr. Ishtar, (_Dark Malik's eyes widened_) who would be… your father."

Dark Malik looked confused, and the Coroner had never seen the punk confused.

"…Good for him, you said?" Bakura repeated, "Good for _you_, I'd say. I want to know. What happened to Mahmoud Rishid."

"Well damn _me_ if I know…!" Dark Malik almost screeched fiercely, and spat to a side, and Bakura reckoned that such a display of passion was not consistent with premeditated, cold-blooded killing. Especially if it came from such an individual. (Truth be told, however, Bakura was not exactly sure _what_ he was supposed to expect from the teenager before him: madness didn't make up the full picture and sanity was not enough either, a pattern was obviously out of the question.)

(But he was almost sure he was not mistaken in saying that this Malik Ishtar had nothing to do with the death of Mahmoud Rishid.)

(…then what had just happened…?)

While Bakura chewed on his inner lip he was trying to decide what to do next. Countless questions swarmed in his head, and every single one felt as crucial as the next as to understanding the situation he had between hands.

With a strange shift of energies, the Ring told him the Landlord was coming. But he had already decided what he'd ask the punk next. The most obvious thing, the point that nagged the Coroner when he thought about the night before.

Ryou was greeting them distractedly and saying something about the ghosts of the place complaining about the bitter energy around Dark Malik, but neither the punk nor the Coroner really paid much heed.

"Ey Landlord," Bakura said, distracted, "Me and Ishtar, we're having a little talk." (Dark Malik was scowling.)

Ryou nodded, and was subsequently ignored as Bakura asked, simply;

"How did you know it was him?"

Dark Malik knew exactly what the Coroner meant, and he smirked, but there was more sadness in the gesture than either Bakura or Ryou (unwilling spectator) had seen in the punk before.

"I saw the photographs. He could have signed her body and it wouldn't have been so obvious."

Again, Bakura and Ryou shared a feeling: they both knew precisely what the punk was talking about.

"When did you see them?" Bakura asked with suspicion. A succession of mental images took place in the Coroner's head without any real order: the photographs taken during the early stages of the investigation. The corpse, a grotesque shape in the mud amid brown reeds; the depuration of the Coptic spell Dr. Atem had provided (amplified, digitalized).

Dark Malik's smirk deepened. "The inspector showed them to me when he questioned me... a very thorough man, don't you think?" He laughed.

Bakura's mind raced- right; Kaiba _had_ interrogated that punk after he himself had refused to (_Bakura clearly remembered Dark Malik's look of shock when he'd told him he'd have to spend 24 hours in prison... the Coroner filed that under 'happy memories'_)... the Coroner had never really given that interrogation much thought, because Kaiba couldn't get a glimpse of a clue out of the punk... obviously.

"_Yes,_" Dark Malik observed sardonically, "the police is very efficient here. I'ma living proof, I think," and he laughed under his breath.

Bakura frowned, but deep inside, he couldn't agree more. Justice and everything related to it was just as faulty as any other human enterprise.

From his defiantly disrespectful sitting position, Dark Malik locked eyes with Bakura.

"I can also tell you why he killed her."

He wasn't smirking, and his features remained serious (almost solemn?) until he finished talking. Then his lips took to their usual smirk of contempt.

Ryou crisped in the sidelines; the Coroner narrowed his eyes:

"How do you know?"

Behind the disdainful smirk, behind the cool façade, the eyes that surveilled them were the eyes of a bird of pray. "She went against all he'd ever taught her and got herself pregnant unmarried, by an infidel no less... It was just too much dishonor put together."

Ryou sighed forlornly. Then, there was silence.

.

.

Later that night found the three of them together again, after the Coroner had informed the Landlord of the workings of the police that day.

Bakura lit a cigarette.

Ryou shrugged. "I guess I just got it wrong with you," he said, but the slight quivering in his voice didn't go amiss for the Coroner. "But that's nothing that we can't put right. We'll turn you in to the police, and it'll be fair."

_But not satisfactory_, Bakura thought distantly, as he pondered on the strangeness of the situation: the three men sitting in the Landlord's living room, drinking tea in peaceful conversation, as if one of them had not just committed murder, as if they were not discussing what to do with that man.

"Thankfully for you, I believe that revenge is the only justice possible," the Coroner said stoic, voicing his opinion but not betraying his thoughts.

Dark Malik chuckled- "You can kill me and I still won't believe you're on _my_ side, Bakura… Anything you want to tell us?"

"It may not be the best time for you to play controlling bastard," the Coroner informed coolly, making the punk scowl.

"If you walk free," Ryou said with resentment, "This man's… Rishid's… name, will be smudged forever. And he was a good man."

"I didn't ask him to cover my tracks," the teenager answered darkly, "…but wouldn't it be stupid to put his _heroic_ sacrifice to waste?"

Bakura quirked an eyebrow. "You don't even respect someone who died for your sake, huh?"

Dark Malik smirked bitterly.

"I'll tell you what, Ishtar," Bakura said, and he just _couldn't_ believe himself playing marshal, "Leave us… go do drugs, kill more relatives or go back to your apartment. I'm having a word with our Landlord."

"Thrilled to oblige," the punk said, standing up and mock-bowing at the Coroner, and waving over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

"You don't want him to go to jail," Ryou stated in a dull tone of voice once they were alone, "I thought you hated his guts. What? Do you want to rub my mistake on my face?"

Bakura shook his head, slowly. He had to give it to his Landlord, more and more, he didn't even feel like being sarcastic to the younger man. It was a protective shield of sorts he just didn't need to use around him any more.

"I made a promise to his pain of a brother, remember?"

Ryou lifted a pale eyebrow.

"We can give him his blasted second chance."

The Landlord didn't look convinced, but Bakura added,

"We _can_ turn him in whenever we want, remember that, dear Landlord."

Ryou sighed. "He looks plainly unwilling to repent."

Bakura honestly didn't believe he was himself when he said, "There could be nothing to repent of. Those scars he has on his back… his father had it coming for a while…" he took a smoke, "And if he'd done this before, don't you think he'd have walked free?"

His Landlord silently contemplated the truth in Bakura's words.

"Watch him play with that damnable piercing on his tongue for two seconds, and you're more than willing to pronounce him insane or whatever," the Coroner finished.

"You're basically saying you won't turn him in," Ryou stated. "…and you're going to live with a murderer down the hall…"

"And a voodoo doctor as my Landlord. I can do it, long as I have cigarettes and coffee."

Ryou looked at him in the eye. "It can actually be dangerous, Bakura," he warned.

"I guess I'll just have to borrow the Ring for a while longer, then."

That made Ryou finally crack a smile. "About that… keep it."

Bakura blinked.

"Keep the Ring. I mean it. It even likes you more than it liked me."

The Coroner laughed openly. "Right, it _likes_ me. Very well. I'll keep it."

.

The Coroner and the voodoo doctor never agreed on anything verbally, but it was transparently clear who would be the one to talk to Dark Malik.

That very same night, Ryou knocked faintly on the punk's door and came in without waiting for a response. He was normally very respectful of privacy, but this was a severe exception.

He found his tenant sprawled out on the brownish, ratty couch, making the cloud of smoke in the room thicken with yet another cigarette, eyes lost in a point out the window.

Still, Ryou knew he had his full attention.

"There's too many people who've tried to help you out. You can't honestly be indifferent to that," he said, plainly.

"I never asked for no one's help."

Ryou's discreet irritation showed in how his lips turned whitish from pressing them together too strongly.

"Apparently no one cared about that either," the Landlord informed, and again felt he sounded perhaps too much like Bakura when he added, "So stop being a pain. You lost this round and get to have a second chance, whether you like it or not, _Malik_."

.

.

.

And so, a couple of days later, Bakura the Coroner found himself writing three detailed reports to send to the registrar of births and deaths, to register the death of three persons with familiar names: Isis Ishtar (unlawful killing), Mr. Ishtar (unlawful killing), and Mahmoud Rishid (suicide).

And it somehow felt much less satisfying than it usually was to have a case closed and a mystery solved.

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

THERE'S AN EPILOGUE!

… So don't be sad.

.

I spent over 40 minutes virtually travellingLondon, to see if it was physically possible to walk from Millwall to the London Bridge. And it is, I really really did my homework. Interesting to note, the London Bridge is not that bridge one always sees as an icon of London, (the one with the two tall towers and the drawbridge? That one's called "Tower Bridge"). The actual London Bridge is of very simple and urban architecture, and it is supported by a series of arches. Google it! It's a good place to hang yourself :P

.

I have a question for you, now that we're reaching the end of the story!

**_Who do you think is the main character?_**

... because I've noticed that, although the story starts with Bakura, a lot of other characters come and leave the spotlight as they please, and end up playing rather significant roles.

.

_**Art:** For those who didn't see it yet, there are two links in chapter 12 to the comic pages I drew for Coroner's! And stay alert! I'll edit this chapter and post the link to the new comic page I'm working on as soon as it's done. Look out for an EDIT heading below!_

_._

Guys, _I can't thank you enough for the amazing reviews you left for last chapter_! The reason I didn't reply to every review separately is that I *always* give away the plot if I do... Shame on me :( Anyway, I'll reply to them now, as usual :)

**Cana-Puff:**More of Dark Malik's sad background story here! He didn't have it easy... But now he has two... kind of... surrogate uncles that will look after him? That'll be dicussed next chapter, though ;) What'll happen to him. Because I think he too deserves a happy ending- screw social rules. Mr. Ishtar had it coming, I SO side with Bakura in this!

I couldn't fit another the-four-of-them-talking scene here... but Ryou and Malik talking there was *_* And it wrote itself. It was strange.

**ilovemanicures:** ...now Dark Malik's dealing with the after effects of his actions and smoking his lungs off while he tries to put together a plan for... what's coming next. He's actually very confused... because real life isn't easy like an anime story, right? You just don't go around killing your family and get away with it law-wise/conscience-wise. And the Ishtar family has such a sucky soap-opera-ish background story here I'm almost ashamed. There's not a member there that didn't suffer like hell... Thankfully Dark Malik has Bakura and Ryou... Although I don't know who supports him more now.

And more conflicted!Ryou in this chapter! Poor guy. He'll need a vacation too when this is all over...

(poor Rishid. I like him a lot. I'm not glad I killed him :/ But it had to be done for Dark Malik to turn over a new page...)

**Thief of Spades:** 17 kinds of awesome? *glomp* Thanks, dear :) AU is my drug. I'm glad that sharing it makes people happy =D

**Hana-Liatris:** BAKURA FTW! y ahora tiene el anillo, jeje. Y Ryou solamente se quiere ir a recostar en una reposera en el Caribe por el resto de su vida... una reposera hecha de huesos de YM hahaha xD Y Kaiba le SIGUE haciendo ojitos a Kisara... no me pude resistir a incluir esa escena... Otra que se escribió sola...!

**HebaLightYukiGibbs18:** 00...? xD I glomp thee  
><strong>Darth Mudkip:<strong> If I ever write a sequel (and I'm VERY tempted to write one...) they'll take a vacation. If they'll get to rest, well, that's a different story xD To be honest, when I first thought the story, Dark Malik was the one to kill his father. But then this other plot twist came around in chapter 12... and chapter 13 was the sad logical consequence :/

**Little Miss Fortune:** Apparently Dark Malik decided he'd smoke his troubles away, and now the troubled one's Malik. It never ends :/ Thanks for the support!

**mari marz:** *doing a happy dance* Thanks for the review! =D And, you nailed it- what will Dark Malik do now? I think it's the thing I love the most about his character, both here and in the canon. He has no purpose in life whatsoever- can you imagine that? Nothing to live or die for? It must be the worst that can happen to somebody. He'll have to do some serious thinking alright, and I don't know what conclusions he'll draw.

Maybe he'll be just thinking for a long, long while.

From your review I noticed that /most/ of the characters become really angry at some point. Of all of them, Ryou is by far the scariest- exaclty because we forget he's so powerful ... oddly enough, way more powerful than Bakura. I hope this chapter was up to expectations? I'll be sad when the story ends, too... but there's the Epilogue yet, and I'm thinking of a sequel, perhaps?

**SetsunaNoroi:** Fellow dA user! *glomp* You're the one with the awesome Ryou icon, right? *_*

Yes, Ryou always struck me as the kind that would get himself into strange stuff. And him with a weak personality, I don't like it much. In the manga he really fought back against the Spirit, and has waaaaaaaaay more backbone than other characters who'd rather beg for their lives than fight. I don't know. I think he's greatly undervalued... and thrilled that you think he's IC here :)

You know, about Bakura and Kisara. They should really hang out together some day. They'd have a lot of fun, and Kaiba will get a fit, guaranteed 8)

I'm also happy Mr. Ishtar got what he deserved. I really root for Ryou's father, but Malik's father I could *never* stand. And if he was horrible to Malik, to Dark Malik he'd be a hundred times worse. The bastard!

.

**To people who add the story to favorites or alerts**: I love you, and you flatter me. Thanks for the support :)

.

_**Next chapter**: Epilogue._

_._


	14. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

* * *

><p>Everything started with a post mortem.<p>

It was a thing, like the alignment of the planets, of the most coincidental and unexplainable genesis, the one that led to such an unlikely progression of events- sometimes we indeed are in the right place at the right moment, and, sometimes, things that never happen, happen.

Picture the man, a distinguished police inspector, striding into a very white building- the Forensic Services Department of London's Metropolitan Police.

There's a lot in his mind. A lot of loose ends from the case he's investigating, somehow, shouldn't fit, but do. He shouldn't be wasting time but, he is. Coming personally to retrieve the results of the autopsy of a man that hung himself out of guilt, allegedly. The true cause of death of the one death that put a closure to a murky mystery.

He isn't paying attention: picture him nervously checking the time, combing his hair backwards with his fingers, trying to tell an office from dozens of similar white doors.

And one of those doors opens, and a doctor comes out of it. She is very distracted too, she may have noticed how late it is, how she really should have been home a couple of hours ago (but she was so engrossed and she wanted to get it done, finished…)

It is honestly hard to tell who runs into whom, and how it is possible to fail to notice someone sharing the corridor when the place is so very white and silent.

He curses when all the papers she carries fall to the floor, scattered all over the place.

"Oh, it's you…"

It is not an unpleasant realization. They do small talk. They decide to have some coffee. A post mortem isn't really that important after all, it's late, neither of them have eaten. She takes the papers back to her office. They aren't really that important after all.

He'll come back tomorrow to get them.

.

.

.

Inspector Kaiba delegated the case, responsibility be damned, and took a week off.

.

.

.

"Nanny and Granny and the seven levels of hell, if I hear him call us like that ever again, he'll regret it, with _pain_…"

Ryou blanked. "He should, too," the voodoo doctor agreed, "but try not to dwell on it."

"I don't," Bakura said gritting his teeth. He didn't believe in conspiracies, but he sometimes found himself thinking there was a higher power up there, somewhere; conspiring against him.

Especially when Dark Malik did stuff like calling him Granny.

"Mr. Ysbryd…?" a secretary called, and Ryou stood up, followed shortly after by Bakura, who hadn't still come to grips with the fact that he was just _there_ doing _that_. And there he'd had himself fooled for a while thinking he was decent and sane.

"You coming too?" Ryou asked, his voice betraying surprise.

The Coroner swore under his breath, so quietly it was almost classy. "Why not," he shrugged.

He scratched the white locks of his fringe and followed his Landlord into the Principal's office.

Frankly, he did not pay attention at all, because the strangeness of the situation soon had him thinking of other (related) things. Like the primordial reason for their being there.

It had not been until a couple of days had passed after the case was definitely closed that he had realized that Malik's ghostly presence was no longer around. It didn't surprise him as much as he thought it should, but something strange set in his chest and had not left him yet.

It took him a while of introspection to know it was an unusual feeling of void. Until then, he had not really been too concerned about his murderous neighbor down the hall. But when the ghost was gone, into a well-deserved afterlife, presumably, he couldn't not think about how he and the Landlord were the only ones left for the unlikeable punk. How he had become sort of… responsible for him.

And he didn't like it. He always was a solitary creature- no friends, no family, no compromises, no risk of becoming indebted or disappointed. But now, that situation was slowly changing, and he swore on the grave of the mother he never had, that if he was so much as _suggested_ to act as his legal guardian (unlikely and improbable and… how old was the menace anyway?) he was going to do something about it and someone would end up _hurt_.

… was someone talking to him?

"As you like," he said, although he had not really heard what Ryou asked him.

And "fine," Ryou said, "Do _not_ let him intimidate you. You have my phone number. Blackmail him."

The Principal looked at him with a mixture of patience and doubt, but that was certainly the first time in his life he heard such a thing. "I hardly believe that's actually legal, Mr. Ysbryd."

"The way we got him to finally finish school wasn't technically legal either," Ryou chirped in a cheerfully creepy kind of way, "And of course you've not heard this from us," he added.

The Principal was now eyeing them warily.

Bakura snorted. "Try the legal ways, then. They'll probably work just _peachy_."

.

.

.

That night, after dinner, Ryou knocked on Bakura's door. Something that sounded like _yeah, yeah, come in_ rang on the other side of the door, and the Landlord let himself through.

"Want tea? I'll make some," he announced, fishing for the kettle, while Bakura, on the couch, read a mystery novel and waved at him in a fashion so as to say, _yeah, do whatever you want but don't annoy me_.

"How long do you think Malik will last in school?" the voodoo doctor asked his tenant, sitting on the couch too and placing two smoking cups on the ratty coffee table.

"Beats me," Bakura answered, bored.

Ryou laughed quietly. "It's good that he's not all day out meddling in ungodly businesses… Who knows, he might even resocialize and get himself a girl or something…"

The mental images that thought triggered in both men were too bizarre not to scar.

Bakura shuddered. "God forbid."

Ryou shuddered too. "Yeah, what the hell was I thinking…"

The Landlord laughed again, but this time the Coroner joined him in his own quiet, under-his-breath way. They drank their teas in amicable silence, and, although both of them noticed how peaceful and silent it was, it was surprisingly Bakura the one who spoke. He was certainly, perhaps against his better will, a changed man.

"so… in the end, it's just you and me again, huh?"

His Landlord smiled frankly. "yup."

"Like nothing ever changed," the Coroner stated.

"No… yes." Ryou allowed himself a private smile of a rare, fond kind, and he wouldn't have been mistaken if he'd guessed Bakura's expression was too different from his.

"We're talking, now."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Phew. The end. A part of me is dying inside.

You know, I've had thie epilogue ready for a month or so now, I just never managed to pluck up he courage to publish it. Yes, you can hate me. AND university's being a bitch, but, when isn't it?

I'd like to hear your thoughts on this, I really would.

Also, I'm planning some spinoffs and in the future perhaps a sequel. But, hear me out, spinoffs and/or oneshots related to this AUverse will be posted in this very story, so don't take it from your alerts- if you see a new chapter published, well, it's probably a crackish oneshot. I have a couple in mind, to tie some loose ends. And suggestions are most welcome.

It has been only my pleasure to have such wonderful people as you all reading my story, and I must thank you with all my heart.

I love you guys!


End file.
